Romance, Mystery and Suspense in Victorian England!

Black by Gaslight ~ Lady Evangeline St. Claire, an unconventional and wealthy Victorian woman who has chosen to be a consulting detective, rescues prostitute Rhiannon Moore from the deadly clutches of Jack the Ripper on a foggy night in Whitechapel. He escapes and  the killing continues - soon both women find themselves investigating these terrible murders and unexpectedly falling in love. Their romance is threatened by a shameful event from the past, however, and the race is on to uncover a fiendish killer and expose the secret hidden deep within one woman's heart. Can they solve the mystery in time? Will they discover a soul-mate within each other? And can they survive discovering the terrible truth behind... BLACK BY GASLIGHT

The Devil's Advocate ~ Is the Madman's Tarot merely a valuable bauble or does this antique curiosity contain powerful occult forces? Is there black magic at work in London? Mysterious disappearances may have a connection to a revival of the notorious Hellfire Club - and there's much more going on in the shadows than meets the eye. When Lina and Rhiannon investigate, they uncover long-buried secrets of murder and more, hidden wealth and a fabulous treasure that one obsessed man will gladly kill to obtain. Will they lose their lives to the Dark Lord? Will their love be strong enough to survive? Can they confront the hideous fate that awaits those who tamper with... THE DEVIL'S ADVOCATE 

The Banshee's Wail ~ When an unexpected legacy from a long-lost relative summons Rhiannon to Scotland, what she and Lina find there is much more than a holiday honeymoon. An ancient curse called down upon the family members of an ancestral castle may be responsible for the death of a kindly old woman who happens to be Rhiannon's aunt - or it might just be part of a hideous plot conceived by someone with an eye towards a hidden legacy. To save lives and bring a killer to justice, Lina and Rhiannon are called upon to investigate the strange, seemingly supernatural events and terrible mysteries that surround... THE BANSHEE'S WAIL

The Hour of the Jackal ~ Lady Evangeline and her lover, Rhiannon, go on a journey to Cairo, expecting to explore the mysteries of ancient Egypt during their holiday trip down the Nile. But they find much more than they bargained for when their lives are threatened by an unknown assassin who seems intent on wrecking revenge for some unknown crime. A dreadful secret from Lina's past resurfaces, threatening to destroy them both, and only a love as strong as theirs can possibly survive.  Can Lina and Rhiannon uncover the identity of their attacker in time? Will they escape from the deadly fate that is in store for them? Or will they be trapped in the nightmare of fire, death and eternal vengeance that is... THE HOUR OF THE JACKAL 

The Mystic Dragon's Curse ~ On a quiet day in London, Lady Evangeline St. Claire recounts to her lover, Rhiannon Moore, this extraordinary tale of magic and murder, in a case she was involved with long ago. In a crowded theater, a Chinese illusionist dies on the stage in full view of a horrified audience, and its up to Lina to figure out whether it was accident, suicide or something infinitely more sinister. With her mentor, Sherlock Holmes, as an unwilling accomplice, can Lina dispell the lies and illusions to uncover the truth behind the mysterious - and all too public - death of one of the foremost magicians of his time? Or is this just another puzzling case of... THE MYSTIC DRAGON'S CURSE

The Changeling's Moon ~ A mysterious painting and a 20-year old murder may hold the key to one man's descent into madness and another man's darkest secret. With Rhiannon beginning to recover from a soul shattering act, and Lina forced to reassess the mistakes she has made in their relationship,  the healing process continues as the lovers begin a light-hearted investigation into the circumstances surrounding an artist's insanity and his final masterpiece. But curiosity killed the cat, and all too soon both women are drawn into past events, unravelling a conspiracy of silence that reaches the highest levels of government. Will they be forced to conceal their findings in order to preserve national security and allow a killer to go free, or can they at last shed light on the horrifying events that are a chilling part of... THE CHANGELING'S MOON

The Alabaster Hand ~ A special Halloween tale! When Lina and Rhiannon are invited to Countess Orosz's Halloween party in London's fashionable West End, they have no idea there are going to be more tricks than treats when a woman is murdered... presumably as a result of an ancient Egyptian curse! Is a statue of Anubis, god of the underworld, reaching out from the grave? When a second victim is found, both women find themselves in a race against time, desperately trying to unravel the riddle behind... THE ALABASTER HAND

The Poltergeist Puzzle ~ A special Halloween tale! Lina and Rhiannon are asked to visit the haunted house of a rich American matron, Mrs. Terwilliger, who is being terrified by strange noises in the cellar which she believes are being caused by a noisy spirit of the restless dead. These disturbances seem harmless enough, but is something more sinister going on? The partners lay a dangerous trap to uncover the solution to... THE POLTERGEIST PUZZLE

The Fall of the Phoenix ~ Lina's mother, the Duchess of Inishglen, has not spoken with her estranged daughter in many years. So when a friendly invitation to visit the ancestral family castle arrives, Lina knows that something is very, very wrong. When she and Rhiannon arrive in Ireland, they find a sinister spiritualist, a hunch-backed Russian princess who claims to be five hundred-years old, terrified servants, a walking specter and the Duchess caught in a web of intrigue and murder that threatens to destroy her completely. Lina and Rhiannon must risk their lives to uncover the truth. Are there really ghosts haunting the corridors of Inishglen? Is a vengeful spirit responsible for two deaths? Or are all these strange occurences merely part of a mastermind's ultimate plan to ensure... THE FALL OF THE PHOENIX

The Ides of October ~ A special Halloween tale! A wealthy collector of Roman coins believes he is being haunted by a toga-clad specter and calls upon Lina and Rhiannon for help. When he ends up dead, is it the work of a thief, revenge from beyond the grave, or has he merely fallen victim to the dreaded... IDES OF OCTOBER

The Eyes of the Idol ~ A short story! A valuable opal necklace is stolen and a nurse is blamed for the crime, but there is more going on in than meets the eye. The truth is revealed when Lina and Rhiannon search for... THE EYES OF THE IDOL

The Body on the Serpentine ~ A short story! A picnic in Hyde Park turns into a murder investigation when Lina and Rhiannon witness the death of a man whose relatives seem to have no motive for killing... THE BODY ON THE SERPENTINE

The Disappearance of the Devil's Eye ~ A short story! At a dinner party, Lina and Rhiannon are called upon to investigate the mysterious theft of a fabulous gemstone. Will they uncover the truth behind... THE DISAPPEARANCE OF THE DEVIL'S EYE

The Cupid's Dart ~ A short story! A case of blackmail soon leads to murder as Lina and Rhiannon investigate the mysterious surroundings and unusual circumstances that lead to... THE CUPID'S DART

Art in the Blood ~ A short story! When Lina and Rhiannon are faced with the murder of an artist, they discover that ART IN THE BLOOD is liable to take the strangest forms.

The Miraculous Fast ~ A short story! Fifteen year old Mary Philpott was a 'miracle girl' who was supposed to have lived without food or water for many years. But when she is found starved to death and thirst at her wealthy patron's house, Lina and Rhiannon know that this is not the work of God, but some malevolent human agent behind... THE MIRACULOUS FAST

The Perilous Rendezvous - A short story! A troubled American asks Lina and Rhiannon to help clear her missing friend of theft charges, but the simple case is more than it seems when it comes to... THE PERILOUS RENDEZVOUS

Black by Gaslight by Nene Adams ©1998

Contains graphic violence, adult situations and language, and the depiction of a romantic relationship between two mature, adult women.
Reader discretion is advised. No unauthorized copying or duplication or publishing in any format, electronic or otherwise,
is permitted without the express written consent of the author. All rights reserved.

PROLOGUE
Eight little whores, with no hope of heaven 
Gladtstone may save one, then there'll be seven. 
Seven little whores beggin for a shilling, 
One stays in Henage Court, then there's a killing. 
Six little whores, glad to be alive, 
One sidles up to Jack, then there are five. 
Four and a whore rhyme alright, 
So do three and me, 
I'll set the town alight 
'Ere there are two. 
Two little whores, shivering with fright, 
Seek a cosy doorway in the middle of the night. 
Jack's knife flashes, then there's but one, 
And the last one's the ripest for Jack's idea of fun. 
An anonymous verse sent to police in the fall of 1888, attributed to Jack the Ripper

CHAPTER ONE

LONDON, 1888, THE WHITECHAPEL DISTRICT

Rhiannon Moore shivered as clammy tendrils of fog insinuated themselves beneath the thin shawl she wore, drawing gooseflesh from her shoulders. It was nearing one a.m., and Whitechapel and the entire city of London were wrapped in a velvet blanket of fog - what natives called a "'London particular." 

Can't see a foot in front of me, Rhiannon thought. Hope another gentleman comes along... haven't had but two, and those carriage trade, just a bit of quick flute playing. Soon it'll be time to go home and I haven't made enough to pay Mrs. O'Malley the rent or buy myself some supper.

Rhiannon's boots clicked on the cobblestones as she walked to and fro, holding her shawl tightly with both hands against the evening's chill. Her footsteps echoed eerily, and beneath her breath she hummed the popular music hall tune, 'Sweet Rose of My Heart'' even as her mind continually circled around the vision of a steaming plate of mutton stew, a knuckle of beef or even a pot of the 'mystery' spoon-up served by the old Italian woman on Gordian Street - a mystery because nobody knew what she put into it, and speculation had run from cart horses to alley cats.

She chuckled softly. Jimmy the Nick had been running a popular betting pool, giving low odds on sewer rats. Guess Jimmy should know, she thought, he's lived next to the old lady for nearly five years.

Her belly rumbled loudly and Rhiannon made a face. She'd had nothing to eat since the previous morning - a stale roll, a slice of moldy cheese and a cup of bitter tea given to her at the Flower of England charity and workhouse. Locals called it the Stinkwink because of the overwhelming stench of carbolic that permeated everything, including the poor but filling food; and the sheer number of prostitutes who used the building as a rendezvous point for ''gentleman callers.'' 

Rhiannon had become a streetwalker, one of the ''ladies of the evening'' following the suicide of her father, Harristeen Moore, a tutor to upper middle class families, two years ago. Left destitute, with a glut of governesses on the market and no hope of a ''decent'' job, starvation had once seemed preferable to such a fall from grace. But against hunger and poverty, even the shame of whoring was nothing compared to sheer survival. 

Well, Rhiannon thought, tucking her shawl around herself more tightly, this is still better than working in a factory. She'd seen some of the factory girls; pale, rail thin and often sporting the scars of injuries gotten from the machines they labored on. One poor woman had lost her arm to a loom; she'd ended up begging on street corners for coppers and eventually drank herself to death on cheap rotgut gin. 

Despite her downfall, Rhiannon was still uncommonly pretty. The pale gaslight caused a halo to form around the red-gold hair she wore in two braids, wound like a coronet around her head. Her eyes were the pale blue of fine Tibetan turquoise and framed by startlingly dark lashes. The other streetwalkers referred to Rhiannon as Sugarbaby, because she possessed a sweet, heart-shaped face that radiated innocence, as well as a small, deliciously plump body that might have been crafted just for the ''profession.'' 

Footsteps... Rhiannon jerked herself out of her reverie and turned her head around in time to see a shadowy figure loom out of the fog. 

CHAPTER TWO

The gentleman wore a top hat and heavy woolen overcoat; his face was thickly furred, sporting a mustache, beard and heavy, mutton-chop sideburns. Rhiannon could only guess at what he might look like underneath all that hair; his eyes were nothing more than suggestive glitters in the gaslight. He stopped and waited, saying nothing. 

Rhiannon slowly pulled off her shawl, revealing a dark blue velvet dress, very worn, with a neckline cut so low that rosy crescents of nipple peeped over the lace that outlined the decollete. She arched her back and swayed towards the gentleman, a smile stretching her lips. She could feel his eyes on her body. Good, she thought, this one might be an easy sell. At least I've got no competition tonight.

 ''Evening, m'lord,'' Rhiannon purred seductively, making sure he got a good look at her best attributes. In the gaslight, the complexion of her breasts had the sheen of heavy cream, and since she was tightly laced, they bulged up over her bodice enticingly. She heard his breathing increase and smiled wider. 

''Well, m'lord,'' she said, standing a few feet away and swaying her hips slightly, ''come looking for a little something to keep you warm tonight? See anything you like?'' Inwardly, she hoped he'd want something quick and simple. The faster he gets done, the sooner I can go home to a nice fire and a glass of mulled cider, she thought, and something better to eat than stale bread.

His voice was harsh, raspy. ''How much?'' 

Rhiannon smiled again. She'd learned the hard way to get the business of payment over before allowing a gentleman his pleasure. When she'd first started out, she'd been cheated by her first customer, who'd just laughed when she'd demanded payment and left her cursing, sore and hungry. I've come a long way since then, she thought with a mental wince, thinking 
about what her father would have done if he saw his daughter in such a scandalous state. He's probably having smelling salts administered in Heaven this very moment.

She pulled her mind back to the job at hand. ''Depends, m'lord,'' Rhiannon said, leaning forward a little so that her heavy breasts quivered and seemed about to burst free of their confinement. ''If you want a bit of mouth music, then it's a quid. I'll hold up the wall for two. And nothing exotic, if you please. Those girls work in Spitalfields.'' 

The gentleman flipped a coin to her. It sparkled as it flew end over end,  landing with a fat thump in her outstretched hand. 

Rhiannon stared at it in wonder. A golden guinea flashed up at her. Good Lord!, she thought, pale blue eyes wide. She looked back up at the gentleman who waited. ''P-p-please, m'lord,'' she stuttered, ''for this you can have the whole night!'' 

He made an impatient gesture. ''Girl, I haven't got all night.'' His voice, though rough, had the cultured accent of an Oxford graduate. ''That alley will do.'' 

Hastily, Rhiannon thrust the coin into a pocket sewn into her bodice, then grabbed her skirts with both hands. ''Thank you, m'lord,'' she said, bobbing her head, ''thank you very much. If you'll come this way...'' Hastily, she led him to the mouth of a filth-strewn alley and slipped inside. 

Minutes later, pressed against the wall, skirts hiked up to her hips, Rhiannon winced every time he thrust into her. This bugger's hung like a donkey, she thought. Hope I'm not ruined for life when he gets through!

Outwardly, she twined her arms around his neck and moaned lasciviously, urging him on with words and phrases that had made her blush hotly the first time she'd heard them from Black Janet, her friend and mentor. 

Black Janet had been a streetwalker since the tender age of twelve. Now in her forties, she resembled a woman twice her age. Harsh use, cheap gin, and crudely aborted pregnancies had taken their toll. The night black hair that had once been her pride was gone; a cheap, hideous horsehair wig covered her nearly bare skull. But, despite her hard life,  Black Janet had a decent heart, and she'd taken the terrified Rhiannon under her wing when the young girl had been brutalized by her first ''client.'' 

Black Janet had taught the naive Rhiannon a great deal: the ways to urge a man to climax more quickly by using words and body movements; how to (hopefully) prevent pregnancy by the use of a small sponge steeped in vinegar; how to use that same sponge when she was having ''the curse'' and needed to work; and all the tricks of the trade the older woman had learned in a lifetime on the streets. 

Rhiannon pumped her hips and increased her moans, mentally wondering how long he was going to take. She was cold, hungry and all she could really concentrate on was food. The gentleman's movements became more urgent... then, abruptly, he stilled. 

Rhiannon resisted asking him if there was anything wrong. She could feel his manhood softening, slipping out of her. She knew he hadn't climaxed; she only hoped that he wasn't the kind to take out his frustration and disappointment on the woman in the case. 

She allowed her skirts to fall back down around her ankles as he stepped away from her and turned his back. The plain cotton drawers she wore were split front to back, another ''trick'' she'd learned from Black Janet. Surreptitiously, she gathered the folds of her skirt in both hands and casually stepped away from the wall, ready to run for her life if he turned  violent. By now, Rhiannon knew the twisted, cobblestoned labyrinth of streets that was Whitechapel as well as any native; she knew she could lose him in the fog and confusion if she had to. 

Rhiannon began stepping silently away, still facing him. Maybe if I'm very quiet, he won't notice I've gone, she thought. She stopped dead, her heart pounding, when his voice snapped out of the fog. 

 ''Where do you think you're going, bitch?'' 

Rhiannon was terrified. His back was to her but she could see his gloved hands were clenched into tight fists. ''N-n-nowhere,'' she stuttered, and kept backing away. 

''Hmph. Nowhere is as fine a destination as any. What day is this, d'ye suppose?'' the gentleman asked in a casual tone, as if he were inquiring about the weather to a society acquaintance. 

''August seventh, sir,'' she replied. She wondered where all this was going, and at the same time, gathered herself to make a run for it. 

The gentleman turned around, breathing heavily. She made an involuntary squeak when she saw the knife gleaming in his hand. 

It was a surgical instrument with a broad, leaf-shaped blade that looked razor sharp. He clutched it tightly, expertly, allowing light to flash all along its length. 

''Good,'' he said hoarsely. ''Jack says it's time for you to die. C'mere, you bloody bitch!'' His voice rose into a squeal of blood maddened rage. 

Rhiannon turned and ran, her footsteps hammering on the cobblestones. 

Behind her came the roaring sound of the madman's breathing.

CHAPTER THREE

Lady Evangeline St. Claire was bored. She swayed to the rhythm of the wheels rolling down cobblestoned streets, her sequined evening gown glittering faintly as streetlamps cast pale reflections of gaslight into the carriage's interior. 

A tall, dark haired beauty with her mothers flawless, sea-green eyes, Lady Evangeline had wealth, position and title due to the unfortunate demise of her husband, Sir Alfred St. Claire. That death had freed her from the restrictions imposed upon her by first, her parents; and second, society itself. She did as she pleased - but paid for it dearly. 

Her name was a mocking scandal among London's society members. Sir Alfred had suffered a fatal heart attack on their wedding night... and little does anyone know that gout-suffering old lecher collapsed before the marriage could be consummated, Lady Evangeline thought, or else there'd be even more hell to pay.

As it was, her ambition to be a ''consulting detective,'' much along the lines of her friend, Sherlock Holmes, did little to enhance her reputation, except when her peers wanted to avail themselves of her discrete services. Even Holmes' companion, Dr. Watson, considered her something of an ''adventuress,'' and eyed her askance whenever she paid a call to 221B Baker Street. 

Yes, Lady Evangeline thought, it is definitely adventure I am after. I hate teas, soirees, balls and the entire society set. That pack of hypocritical, mealy-mouthed, catty curs can go straight to the Devil!

She'd ordered her driver to take her to Whitechapel. Although a den of sin, filth and crime, and infinitely more dangerous than her own neighborhood of fashionable Grosvenor Square (especially at one o'clock in the morning), Lady Evangeline had to meet with one of her sources, a blind beggar named Bill Peg. He always treated himself to a warm gin at the Mucky Duck after hours, and she was looking forward to their clandestine meeting. The situation with the Duchess of Inverwood was becoming desperate. His information might save that stupid young woman's marriage, she though idly. 

Suddenly, a woman's scream rang out, startling her out of her trance. 

Immediately, she rapped sharply on the carriage roof, shouting to the driver, ''Stop! Stop at once, I say!'' 

The startled driver reigned in the horses to a sweaty, eye-rolling standstill. The coachman, Henry, knew better than to question his strong-willed (and well paying) employer. 

She scrambled out of the carriage and stood there, listening. The fog was unusually thick and scented with the now familiar stew that was Whitechapel:  dung - horse and otherwise, boiled cabbage, and the sickeningly sweet stench of decay. 

Lady Evangeline twisted her head to and fro, trying to pinpoint the scream's location. There was something about that voice, something achingly familiar... 

The scream rang out again. It was filled with despair, pain and terror. The sound of it pierced Lady Evangeline's heart like an arrow. 

Motioning Henry to stay put, she gathered her billowing skirts in both hands and ran. The elaborate coiffure that her maid, Solange, had labored over for two hours came down from its pins, and black curls bobbed in her eyes as she hurried. 

Thank God I do not wear stays! she thought. I should never be able to run, or even breathe!

Plenty of exercise - which included a twice-weekly regimen with a former bare-knuckles boxing champion and the baritsu lessons recommended by Sherlock Holmes - had toned her body to its physical peak. Lady Evangeline refused to wear the tight, constricting clothing suited to her station; instead, all her dresses were designed for maximum comfort and ease of 
movement. Even so, she preferred men's clothing and often went out in trousers, concealing her ink-black tresses beneath a gentleman's hat. Holmes had taught her a great deal about the art of disguise and she used those skills whenever necessary. 

Tonight, however... 

Curse the opera! Lady Evangeline thought as her skirts nearly caused her to trip. 

Lady Evangeline reached a deserted street and cast about, trying to remember where the screams had originated from. A faint whimper made her eyes narrow into slits. 

Stealthily, she approached the mouth of an alley, crepe soled shoes making scarcely a whisper on the stones. Lady Evangeline peered around the corner - and what she saw made her gasp quietly, her mouth tightening into a thin, straight line.

CHAPTER FOUR

Rhiannon lay prone, trapped, clammy stones grinding into her back. Straddling her body, the madman chuckled, knife upraised in one hand. 

With a thrill of horror, the pretty streetwalker realized that he was chanting softly, ''Bitch! Bitch! Whore! I'll cut all the little girls to pieces...'' 

''Please,'' Rhiannon whispered, tears overflowing from her eyes, ''Why are you doing this? What do you want?'' 

He looked down at her and cocked his head to one side. To her surprise - and terror - he answered, ''You just wait, pretty girl, just you wait. All whores get what they deserve. That's right. Exactly what they deserve.'' 

Abruptly, the knife plunged down. Aided by some inner instinct, Rhiannon twisted her body beneath his, so that the blade did not reach her throat as intended; instead, it plunged deeply into her shoulder. 

Pain seared through her and she screamed, frantically trying to get some purchase on the stones to push her tormentor away. 

The knife raised again, dull with blood... her blood... 

Rhiannon's eyes widened. Her mouth formed an O, bottom lip trembling. Oh, God, she thought, no!

Suddenly, another voice penetrated the alley, echoing off the stone walls. ''Unhand her at once, you bloody villian!'' 

Rhiannon tried to scream, but could only pant, her breath rushing in and out of her body so fast her head was swimming. A woman... was her last thought before shock, pain and excruciating fear sent her tumbling down into peaceful darkness. 

Lady Evangeline was furious. Nevertheless, she did not underestimate the danger of the situation. At first glance, it had seemed like a case of common rape; now, she realized, the circumstances were quite different, indeed. 

The man lumbered to his feet. Lady Evangeline's eyes widened when she saw the blood stained knife in his fist. Her gaze flickered to his victim; the rapidly widening stain of blood on the woman's blue gown looked black beneath the gaslight. She noted with relief that it was a shoulder wound; obviously deep but not likely to be immediately fatal. 

Automatically, her body adopted the defensive stance taught to her by her tutors. Legs slightly spread, balanced firmly on the balls of her feet, one foot slightly in front of the other, hands ready at her sides. 

He stood there, staring at her as if bewildered. Abruptly, anger took the place of his surprise. With an incoherent roar he sprang at her, knife held professionally low. 

With a twitch of her hands, Lady Evangeline released the hidden cords that kept her skirt attached to its elaborate bodice. Yards of silk billowed to the ground, leaving her legs free from the hampering material. Lady Evangeline never wore separate petticoats; they were built into her dresses. Beneath the evening gown, she wore only a set of combinations - a camisole top and lace ruffled pantalets that covered her to the knees. 

Time slowed down as her concentration firmed. As he sprang, her mind automatically calculated distance, trajectory and speed; she was able to anticipate her attacker's moves with ease. 

Had there been any witnesses, they would have seen a half-dressed woman of unusually tall stature and beauty make a flurry of movements that seemed to be little more than ineffectual motions. In fact, Lady Evangeline caught the edge of the knife with the side of her hand, pushing it away from her, while at the same time launching a devastating series of face and body punches with her free hand. 

He was dazed, rocked by the blows. But he came at her again, a trickle of blood staining his beard, lips twisted in a snarl. 

Lady Evangeline decided she had no more time to waste; the wounded woman must be seen to as quickly as possible. With an intimidating scream (taught by her baritsu instructor), she whipped up her leg, toes pointed like a dagger, and caught her attacker on the temple. 

He fell with a grunt, knife tinkling as it bounced on the stones. 

Lady Evangeline paused a moment to catch her breath, then snatched the filth-soaked skirts from the street and hurried over to the other woman, who lay unconscious. 

Using the ruined skirts to cushion her knees, Lady Evangeline knelt beside the wounded woman, easing the blood-soaked dress away from her shoulder to look at the wound. As she had suspected, it was deep, but not dangerous unless the bleeding were allowed to continue unchecked. She ripped a section of material from the other woman's petticoats and used it as a crude bandage. 

As she worked, Lady Evangeline heard footsteps crunching down the street. It was the ''gentleman,'' who, having regained consciousness, was hurrying away. With a shrug, Lady Evangeline turned back to her patient. Perhaps now he'll think twice about attacking a helpless woman, she thought. 

She easily hefted the fainting woman into her arms and headed back to the carriage, leaving her gown's skirts behind with a pang. It had been her favorite gown... and if Monsieur Andre ever heard what had happened to his painstakingly designed creation, he'd ban her from his salon forever. 

Still, she thought, looking down at the sweet, heart-shaped face of the other woman, it was well worth the cost to save the girl's life.

With a frown, Lady Evangeline realized that, somehow, in some way... she felt as if she knew this woman. Quickly, she dismissed the idea; she had no time for prolonged inner consideration - the woman's wound must be seen to as quickly as possible. 

But she couldn't help the slight suspicion that nagged and nibbled on the outer corners of her mind. 

CHAPTER FIVE

When Rhiannon woke, it was daylight. She was comfortably snuggled in the warm depths of a feather bed, the sheets that slid across her limbs so deliciously were fine linen, and a thoughtful person had left a pitcher of cool water on the night stand beside her. 

 It wasn't until she unthinkingly reached for the glass that a sudden, tearing burn lanced through her shoulder. With a gasp, she looked down and realized that she was naked... and a large, white bandage, lightly stained with blood, was wrapped around her shoulder. How?, she thought dazedly, then her eyes flew open in shock as she remembered. Jack!

She looked around frantically, red-gold curls tumbling into her face. The events of last night came rushing back to her. It all seemed like some strange, horrible nightmare, she thought, but it was real!

After a moment, she remembered the last thing she'd heard - a woman's voice commanding the madman to let her go. Slowly, perceiving no immediate threat, the pretty streetwalker began to calm down and think. 

Rhiannon's brows came together as she frowned. Where was she?  How did she get here?  And what had happened to the madman, ''Jack?'' 

Suddenly, the door swung open and a woman entered, arms piled with a profusion of colorful dresses. 

''Good morning,'' she said cheerfully to the open-mouthed Rhiannon. ''I sincerely doubt you could wear anything of mine, my dear. I am ever so much taller, and not quite... er... as well endowed as you are in certain areas, if you'll forgive me for mentioning so indelicate a subject.'' 

The woman bustled around the room, still talking, laying the dresses carefully across a chair. Rhiannon, numb with shock, could only watch and listen. 

The other woman was continuing, ''....am Lady Evangeline St. Claire, but do please call me Lina. You are at my home in Grosvenor Square, and I assure you that you are quite safe. Now,'' she crossed the room briskly to sit carefully on the side of the bed next to Rhiannon, ''let me have a look at that shoulder.'' 

As Lady Evangeline reached for Rhiannon's shoulder, the streetwalker shrank back. A lady of quality, tending to her? A common whore? Rhiannon flushed with shame; the agony of her situation, so long kept pushed down in the depths of her heart, came rushing back. She wanted to run, wanted to hide beneath the covers like a frightened child, wanted to look anywhere but into this beautiful woman's sea-green eyes and see pity, censure, and inevitable rejection. 

Lady Evangeline stopped, then folded her hands carefully into her lap. A perceptive woman, she had an inkling of what this exceptionally pretty, if a little wan, young lady was feeling. ''My dear girl,'' she said gently, ''believe me when I tell you that I do not hold your profession against you in any way.'' Seeing Rhiannon shake her head violently, Lady Evangeline continued softly, ''What is your name?'' 

The reply was barely audible. ''Rhiannon. Rhiannon Moore, milady.'' 

''Well, Rhiannon Moore, you are, I believe, what is referred to as a streetwalker. A lady of the evening. A light-o'-love, a flipskirt, a roundheels - and, let us not forget, a whore. Correct?'' 

Rhiannon nodded miserably. 

''Look at me.'' Lady Evangeline's gentle fingers on her face made Rhiannon tilt her head until she could look deeply into the other woman's eyes. ''There, that's better. Now, Rhiannon, I  feel nothing save sorrow that someone as young as yourself should be forced into such a soul-devouring and heart-breaking profession. I think it is a shame and a sin - but not upon you. I blame society's ills for forcing you to sacrifice your better nature in order to feed yourself and be sheltered. It is they, Rhiannon - those men who use you and discard you as callously as a used handkerchief, those who abandoned a helpless woman to the cruelties of this world - it is they whom  I blame. Never you.'' 

The combination of Lady Evangeline's soft tone, the sincerity in her wondrously green eyes, the terrifying events of the previous night, were too much for the still shocky Rhiannon. To her horror, she burst into tears... 

And immediately found herself enveloped in warm, strong arms, cradled on a broad shoulder, her face pressed against a neck that smelled of lilac powder and roses. Soft hands stroked her hair, her back, while a soothing voice crooned nonsense words into her ear. 

Rhiannon wept for her lost innocence, wept for her father's death, wept for all the things she had done to survive. And finally, hiccuping and gasping, eyes swollen, head aching, but feeling as if a huge weight had been lifted off her chest, Rhiannon's wild tears subsided. With a start, she realized that she was naked, the sheet had slipped away from her upper body. Blushing with embarrassment, she tore herself from the other woman's embrace and pulled the sheet up to her chin. 

Lady Evangeline silently handed her a daintily embroidered handkerchief. Rhiannon wiped her eyes and blew her nose as delicately as circumstances would allow. 

''Feeling better?'' Lady Evangeline asked with a small smile. When Rhiannon nodded, she continued, ''Well, then. Here is what we are going to do. I am going to take a look at your shoulder; I had a doctor summoned last night to stitch up the wound - which, I am sorry to say is going to leave a scar - but I would still feel better changing the bandages and making sure there is no sign of infection. Then Cook will bring you a tray and I advise you to eat. You lost quite a bit of blood last night, and it needs to be replaced.'' 

''Then,'' the peer said with an expansive gesture, ''you will take a nice, hot bath, and pick out something pretty to wear. My maid, Solange, is about your size and I prevailed upon her for a selection of suitable dresses. After all that, we will decide upon your future. Agreed?'' 

Again, Rhiannon could only nod dumbly. This woman, this - what did she say to call her? - That's it, Lina. This Lina certainly seems capable and clearly expects me to obey her orders.

A small spark of rebellion flared in the streetwalker's soul. Who was this woman so blithely ordering her about? 

Something of this must have shown on Rhiannon's face, for Lady Evangeline said quickly, ''Of course, my dear, you may leave at any time you desire. You are not a prisoner. I can even have my carriage drive you. But you really need to rest and recover from your ordeal. And I would consider it a personal favor if you would be a guest in my home for as long as you wish.'' 

Rhiannon studied the woman in front of her. Lady Evangeline was tall, and hair as jet-black as ink had been pinned into a simple knot on the top of her head. She was dressed in a plain ivory silk shirtwaist pinned at the neck with a pretty Italian cameo, and her forest green skirt made her eyes seem as dark as emeralds. Sensing Rhiannon's scrutiny, Lady Evangeline remained silent, allowing the other woman to see what she would. 

She seems an intelligent lass, Lady Evangeline thought. After last night... well, I can only hope she will decide to stay.

 After a horror-stricken Henry had driven the peer and her injured charge home, rattling through the streets as if pursued by the hounds of Hell; after her hysterical housekeeper had been dispatched in the company of Bob the footman to fetch a doctor; after Rhiannon had been cleaned, stitched up and bandaged and the filthy remains of her dress stripped away and sent to the rag pile to be burned; after Lady Evangeline had, at last, been free to set her mind on other things... she had remembered something. 

Lady Evangeline had, on a number of occasions, accompanied her friend Holmes on his investigations. Their excursions had taken them to many seedy parts of London... and the peer now knew where and under what circumstances she had seen Rhiannon before. 

The pretty strawberry-blonde had been plying her trade as a prostitute; Lady Evangeline and Holmes had interrupted a ''transaction'' while attempting to follow the trail of a notorious criminal through Whitechapel. Rhiannon had, the peer remembered, been scarlet with embarrassment... and her gentleman client had been red as well, though more out of choler and ill-tempered spleen. 

He had begun to beat Rhiannon as soon as Lady Evangeline and Holmes were out of sight, but the woman's screams and sobs had carried - just as they had done last night, echoing eerily off the cobblestone and brick alleyways. Holmes had not been inclined to interfere; the peer had disagreed and had taught the so-called ''gentleman'' a lesson he'd never forget. Rhiannon had been pitifully grateful; the lady still remembered the hot wetness of the pretty girl's tear-stained face pressed against her hand. 

And the soft, warm bosoms pressed tightly against her legs as Rhiannon clung to her and wept.

CHAPTER SIX

With a start, Lady Evangeline tore her mind away from the provocative subject when she realized that Rhiannon was speaking shyly. ''... don't know how to thank you for last night. I'm sorry if I've been a lot of trouble; if you don't mind, milady, I'd like to stay for as long as you'll let me.'' Rhiannon stared at her rescuer, obviously awaiting a response. 

Lady Evangeline cleared her throat. She knew Rhiannon would not recognize her; she had been dressed in men's costume that long-ago evening. For now, she'd keep that information to herself. The peer didn't exactly think her own behavior that night was exemplary; while she'd thought about returning to Whitechapel and searching for the strawberry-blonde prostitute, ultimately she'd forgotten in the excitement of the chase. 

After thinking things through, Lady Evengeline had realized that Rhiannon had been a victim of her own cursed class consciousness, that instinctive sense of superiority bred into the bones of the English peerage. She could have saved Rhiannon from more than an angry customer on that long-ago night, but hadn't. Ultimately, she'd forgotten about the young woman because she was a prostitute and therefore, beneath her. 

Thank God that rot no longer infests my thinking, the peer thought. But she still felt vaguely guilty and uncomfortable about telling Rhiannon the truth. 

''Think nothing of it, my dear. It is my pleasure to help ladies in distress,'' Lady Evangeline said with an inner wince. ''And you may stay as long as you like. That murdering madman will think twice before attacking another helpless female, I warrant.'' 

A rap at the door signaled the entrance of Cook, an enormous, cheerful woman who, despite her bulk, moved with extraordinary grace and precision. 

'''Ere we are, luv,'' she said with a huge smile, ''sit up then, little miss. Oi've got yer tray all ready, Oi 'as. Noice beef soup made wiv' the bone, a bacon butty, some blanc-mange from last noit, an' a bit o' that sharpish cheese milady loikes, an' yer all set.'' She settled the tray over Rhiannon's legs. ''Go on, then, luv, tuck in, tuck in.'' 

Rhiannon couldn't help but smile. Then the delicious odors wafting from the tray made her stomach rumble. Cook laughed; Lady Evangeline smiled and rose. ''Well, I shall leave you to your breakfast, Rhiannon. If I were you, I would eat every morsel. Cook is a terrible tyrant; if you offend her, she will burn your toast every morning for a week.'' 

Cook looked offended. ''Oi won't stand 'ere an' be h-insulted, yer laidyship. If you'll hex-cuse me, Oi'll go back to me kitchen an' see to yer breakfast. An' you'll eat h-every bite, too... burnt toast an' all!'' 

All three women laughed as Cook left the room, as majestic as a galleon under full sail. 

Lady Evangeline said, ''If you need anything, Rhiannon, please ring. You should not try to get out of bed. I shall have Jackson change your bandage; he has a good professional touch. If you need to use the... er, necessary, then I trust you will ring for assistance?'' 

Rhiannon nodded, her mouth full. With a final smile, Lady Evangeline, too, left, leaving the streetwalker to her breakfast - and her thoughts, which were becoming increasingly troubled. 

Rhiannon pondered. Why did Lady Evangeline seem so familiar? Why did she feel as if she could trust this woman with her life? And why was she feeling such a powerful attraction for a virtual stranger? 

Rhiannon shrugged and continued to eat the best meal she had had in a long time. Philosophical considerations held a poor second to food; for right now, it was enough that she had a hot meal, a comfortable bed and, perhaps more importantly of all - a friend. 

Rhiannon stood in front of the closed door, fussing with the folds of her dress, smoothing her hair. 

 The dress she had chosen was of soft Egyptian cotton, midnight blue with tiny white bows and ribbons looped around the hem, and billowing poet's sleeves that tied at the wrist with more bows. Her hair had been done up in its customary coronet; now, the red-gold braids were entwined with white and dark blue ribbons, and a cluster of white carnations had been thrust behind one ear, courtesy of the formidable French maid, Solange. 

Jackson, the lady's housekeeper and butler, had proved to be an ordinary looking gentleman of medium height and build, with gray eyes, gray hair and a face so commonplace that no one would ever look at him twice. These attributes, he had informed the wide eyed Rhiannon, coupled with natural agility, had once made him an excellent burglar. 

It was Jackson who had supervised Rhiannon's bath, actually drawing the water, adding scents and aiding her into the claw-footed tub. Rhiannon had been acutely embarrassed but Jackon had tended to her with the impersonal disinterest of a professional nurse. Then Solange had come to see to her hair and lace her into the chosen dress. 

Rhiannon had never been catered to before; having people wait on her hand and foot was an entirely new experience. I could grow to like this, she thought with a mental purr. Her shoulder still throbbed but the pain was bearable. Jackson had changed the bandage, tsking and tut-tutting every time the young woman flinched. 

Now, a well-scrubbed and well-fed Rhiannon stood before the door of Lady Evangeline's study and fiddled with the bows at her wrists. Maybe I should have picked the brown dress, she thought, then realized that she was making excuses to avoid the other woman. 

Now, girl, she said to herself sternly, the lady's been very good to you, treated you well despite the difference in your stations. Don't let ingratitude be another of your sins!

Squaring her shoulders, Rhiannon rapped on the door, waiting until she heard a muffled, ''Come in,'' before she briskly slid the pocket door back and stepped inside. 

CHAPTER SEVEN

The room was dimly lit with the gaslight turned down; heavy damask curtains at every window kept the sun from entering. All the furniture was uniformly dark and heavily carved, every bit of it upholstered in crimson velvet trimmed with gold. 

A massive desk dominated one side of the room; a monstrosity of heavy mahogany and ivory inlay, its claw-and-ball feet made considerable dents in the Aubusson carpet that added pale shades of cream and amber to lighten the oppressive atmosphere. A granite fireplace added warmth; vases filled with fresh flowers added scent. Every wall was filled floor to ceiling with bookcases, and every bookcase was crammed with imposing volumes. 

Rhiannon sucked in her breath. The room has a definitely masculine feel to it, she thought, but there is a touch of the lady about as well. Everything's so beautiful...  A voice startled her out of her trance. 

''I trust the bath went well?'' 

Lady Evangeline sat up, rubbing her temples. She had come into her study, after changing into more comfortable clothes, and had fallen asleep, much to her dismay. Naps always gave her a beastly headache. 

She rose and allowed herself a moment to take in the vision before her. 

Rhiannon is inordinately beautiful, Lady Evangeline thought. The dress does wonders for her figure. And that hair! What a shame she keeps it bound up so tightly; it is truly glorious when the length cascades in curls across her white shoulders... with a mental shake, Lady Evangeline interrupted that dangerous train of thought. 

Rhiannon paused, taking in Lady Evangeline's figure with a slight start. The peer was dressed in a pair of worn houndstooth trousers, a man's white linen shirt casually tucked in the waist, sleeves rolled up to expose muscular forearms. Her feet were bare and a pair of round-rimmed spectacles winked from their position in her ink-black hair. 

''The bath was fine, milady,'' Rhiannon gushed, ''Just fine. Thank you for the dress; it's finer than anything I've worn in a long time.'' 

Lady Evangeline smiled. ''Quite all right, my dear,'' she said, green eyes twinkling, ''Glad to have been of assistance. Now,'' she said, crossing over to Rhiannon and taking her arm, ''sit down and I shall answer all your burning questions, just as I promised.'' 

Rhiannon allowed the other woman to steer her gently but firmly to the fireplace, where she was just as gently seated and an afghan tucked around her knees. 

Lady Evangeline herself slouched in a chair across from the other woman, admiring the flickers of firelight that reflected from Rhiannon's glorious hair. The streetwalker was silent, hands clasped together in her lap. Finally, Lady Evangeline spoke, ''I suppose you are wondering how you came to be here after last night's events?'' 

Rhiannon nodded. A thousand questions stuttered on her tongue, but she felt it would be better for Lady Evangeline to explain first, then any questions she might have would be more intelligent ones. Thank God poor father was a tutor, Rhiannon thought gratefully. One of the first things he taught me was how to  learn.

Lady Evangeline told the story simply, beginning with the uneventful carriage ride in Whitechapel (though omitting the reason why) and ending with Rhiannon safely tucked in bed, her wound tended to by a hastily summoned doctor. 

''...although,'' the peer concluded, ''I could have stitched the wound myself, I felt more confident in a professional surgeon seeing to it. I fear I am out of practice; however, do not take that as license to become wounded again so that I might regain my dexterity! I do not need to practice that badly!'' She laughed, and after a moment, Rhiannon laughed with her. 

''I see,'' Rhiannon said simply, though her mind was whirling. The lady had fought a knife wielding madman? By herself? Rhiannon could scarcely credit it, yet... 

She studied the other woman from beneath her lashes. Lady Lina certainly has the height for it, and if her arms are any indication, she must have the strength. Obviously, this is a very unusual woman.

Lady Evangeline must have read her thoughts, for she wrinkled her nose and said, ''I do not find my fellow's hollow pursuits gratifying. I have chosen my own way of dealing with the world and I am satisfied with what I have made of myself. I am no hothouse flower, Rhiannon. I am a woman, strong and intelligent, quite capable of defending my own honor - and that of someone else.'' 

Now, Rhiannon's question bubbled to the surface before she could stop it. ''Why?'' she asked forcefully. 

Lady Evangeline's brow furrowed. ''I beg your pardon?'' she replied, obviously confused. 

Rhiannon spread her hands wide. ''Why? Why stop at all? Why help a... a... well, a common whore who, for all you knew, was merely being disciplined by the man who owned her?'' 

Lady Evangeline swiftly stood up and knelt down by the other woman's side, taking her cold little hands into her own warm strong ones. This argument must be answered; the guilt she felt demanded it. 

''My own sense of honor requires me to help wherever and whenever I can,'' the peer said fervently. ''I could have no more left you to the ministrations of that madman than I would have left my own flesh and blood. Oh, Rhiannon,'' she said, looking deeply into the other woman's pale blue eyes, ''how little you must think of yourself, to believe you deserved no rescue! My poor dear... what has the world done to you?'' 

What have I done to you? she continued silently. I could have saved you long ago.

A perfect, silver tear traced its way down Rhiannon's cheek. ''Please, Lady Lina, allow me to tell you my own story. Then perhaps you may judge me - kindly, cruelly, or not at all.'' 

As Rhiannon spoke of her respectable upbringing, her mother's death and father's suicide, her subsequent destitution, the weeks of barely surviving, her final decision to barter what society chose to regard as a woman's priceless pearl - her virginity - in order to eat, Lady Evangeline felt close to tears herself. 

This poor gentle soul, she thought compassionately, has borne upon her slender shoulders a weight that would cripple a full grown man. Well, she decided, that will soon change. I will do what I should have done when I first encountered Rhiannon. Some of her suffering is my own fault; certainly the wound she now bears could have been avoided had I not abandoned her when we'd first met. Poor chit! She certainly deserves better than she had gotten from life thus far.

Rhiannon's voice trailed off and she stifled a sob behind one hand, pulling it free from Lady Evangeline's grasp. ''If you wish, I'll leave,'' she said softly, scrubbing her wet face. ''I can only imagine what you must think of me.'' 

Lady Evangeline pulled a linen handkerchief from her trouser pocket and daubed at the tears on the other woman's face. ''My dear,'' she said, ''if you recall, I told you this morning that I do not blame you for anything you have done in the past. You are essentially a good person...'' 

Rhiannon interrupted. ''I am not!'' she said fiercely, ''I sold myself on the streets! A decent, good woman would have starved first!'' 

Lady Evangeline's lips tightened and her green eyes flashed. ''Rhiannon Moore, I will not listen to such rot! You are a woman who was forced by circumstances beyond her control to survive, no matter the cost! Frankly, I admire such tenaciousness; there is precious little of it in the world already.'' 

Rhiannon stared at the other woman. ''You mean...?'' She was unable to continue. 

''I mean,'' Lady Evangeline said, ''that I do not hold anything you have done in your past against you. I judge you by what you are now, at this moment. And Rhiannon,'' she continued with a smile, ''what I have seen thus far is very good indeed.'' 

For a moment, sea-green eyes were locked onto pale blue, both women caught up in a solid, precious moment of perfect understanding. At last, Rhiannon dropped her eyes and Lady Evangeline cleared her throat. ''Rhiannon,'' she said, ''I would like to offer you a position, here, in this house. With me.'' 

''What?'' 

''My dear, I told you before that we would discuss your future. Judging from your reaction to your current circumstances, I would imagine that a continued life on the streets is not your preferred employment?'' Seeing Rhiannon shake her head, Lady Evangeline continued, ''So I wish to employ you myself. As a secretary.'' 

''But I don't...'' 

''You were a tutor's daughter. You were decently educated; I do not know the entire state of your studies but no doubt they will suffice. I require someone with intelligence, patience and persistence to aid me in my researches. I believe you will do admirably.'' Lady Evangeline paused for a moment, then continued a little delicately, ''And I also require someone who 
will not be put off by certain aspects of my lifestyle. Forgive me for mentioning it, Rhiannon, but considering your former profession, I sincerely doubt there will be very much I shall do that you will find shocking.'' 

Rhiannon raised an eyebrow. ''Shocking?'' she asked in an arch manner. 

Lady Evangeline chuckled; it was good that the girl's spirits were finally raising. ''Yes, shocking. My lifestyle is quite different from my peers. My dinner guests are more likely to be loan sharks, pugilists and thieves, rather than lords and ladies. Not that there is much difference, to my mind.'' 

Both women laughed. Lady Evangeline continued, ''I do work of a delicate and sensitive nature occasionally. Tell me, Rhiannon, have you ever heard of Sherlock Holmes?''' 

''Oh, yes! Dr. Doyle's stories in The Strand! They are wonderful, aren't they?'' 

''Well, Conan Doyle is Dr. John Watson's literary agent. Somewhat like Mr. Holmes, I inquire into matters that are outside the pale of England's laws. The cases I work upon, however, have little bearing on National Security, and rarely involve government agents or foreign powers. For example, at the moment I am tracing a packet of compromising letters for a woman who is being blackmailed by a former lover. That is what I was doing last night in Whitechapel; I was on my way to a meeting with one of my informants, who supposedly knew the location of the letter's bearer.'' 

Rhiannon's eyes widened. ''You... you're a detective?'' 

Lady Evangeline laughed. ''No, my dear,'' she said, rising and moving to her own chair, where she sat and crossed her legs gracefully. ''I prefer to think of myself as an 'inquiry agent.' All that aside, I truly feel that you are worthy of trust, Rhiannon. And I would very much like it if you were to stay.'' 

Rhiannon thought a moment. To return to her squalid rooms, where she nightly did battle with the rats for possession of a threadbare bed? To walk the streets, trading her body for coin? Living day after day with shame scorching her soul? 

Without another moment's hesitation, Rhiannon said, ''I'll do it. Lady Lina, I swear I shall never give you cause to regret all that you have done for me.'' I would die for you, she thought gratefully. 

''Excellent. For now, your only duties shall be to rest and regain your strength. In a few days, we shall have to make a trip to the clothiers and the milliners; your wardrobe - and I intend no censure - is hardly suitable for a respectable lady's secretary.'' 

When Rhiannon began to protest, Lady Evangeline raised one hand. ''My dear, you shall find that it is fruitless to argue with me when my mind is made up. I have determined to purchase you a wardrobe, and the matter is settled. If you are worried about cost, I assure you that my own finances will bear up admirably; surely it will be no strain to see you outfitted to my satisfaction.'' 

Rhiannon could only acquiesce gracefully. ''Thank you, milady, for everything.'' 

Lady Evangeline smiled. She did enjoy having her way. ''You rest there, my dear. I have a little work to do; afterwards, I can explain your new duties more fully.'' 

Lady Evangeline rose and crossed to her desk, where she was soon engrossed in a copy of The London Times. Rhiannnon's acceptance of her employment had eased her burning conscience somewhat. She need never know.

Rhiannon yawned drowsily and was about to fall asleep when she was startled awake by Lady Evangeline's wordless shout of rage. 

Rhiannon's eyes flew open and she began to tremble. Lady Evangeline cursed savagely, crumpling up the newspaper in one fist and hurling it across the room. Rising, she began to pace, stomping heavily, muttering under her breath. 

The strawberry-blonde was terrified. She had never seen Lady Evangeline's temper; against her better judgment, she began to wonder if perhaps working for the lady might not be a mistake after all. 

Abruptly, Lady Evangeline paused, as if sensing Rhiannon's fear for the first time. She took a deep breath and crossed the room to the other woman, who shrank back into the couch. Lady Evangeline stopped immediately; then squatted down on the floor, bringing her stormy green eyes level with Rhiannon's pale blue. 

''I am sorry, my dear,'' the beautiful lady said tightly, her cheeks flushed, ''I did not mean to frighten you. Believe me, Rhiannon, I mean you absolutely no harm. True, my temper can sometimes be violent, but that violence has never and will never be directed at someone whom I consider a friend.'' 

Rhiannon heard the sincerity in Lady Evangeline's words and began to relax. ''What is it?'' she asked. 

Lady Evangeline sighed and ran a hand over her face. ''I hate to tell you this, Rhiannon, but... there was a murder in Whitechapel last night. And I believe it was Jack who killed her.'' 

Both women stared at one another as the fire crackled on the hearth.

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Black by Gaslight (page 2) by Nene Adams©1998 - All rights reserved

CHAPTER EIGHT

The body of a prostitute, believed to be Martha Turner, was discovered early this morning near George Yard Buildings in Spitalfields, Whitechapel. She had been stabbed a total of thirty-nine times...'' 

Rhiannon's voice trailed off. She stared at Lady Evangeline in horror, the crinkled newspaper clutched in both hands. She tried to speak, but could only croak. Then she cleared her throat and began again, this time more successfully. ''Why do you think Jack...?'' 

Lady Evangeline leaned back in her chair. ''If it were a robbery, her throat might have been cut, but all those wounds... even an enraged spouse or lover would hardly mutilate her that way. No, my dear, I firmly believe that your Jack found another victim last night; he was, I believe, the only knife wielding madman lurking in Whitechapel. Whether the police will have any success, I do not know.'' She sighed heavily. ''I blame myself. I should have either bound him or killed him, but at the time, I believed him to be merely violent with drink, not insanity.'' 

Rhiannon stared. ''You would have killed him?'' 

''Yes. I do not believe that all human life is sacred. But I am not a monster, my dear. I should only kill if I were forced to it, if circumstances allowed no other alternative. I am not a pacifist by any means.'' 

Rhiannon sighed. Well, she thought, perhaps it will all work out for the best. Milady is certainly eccentric, though.

And on that note of careful optimism, Rhiannon allowed a small shred of hope to lighten the darkness of her heart. 

The next few weeks passed in a whirlwind of activity. Rhiannon's head spun; when Lady Evangeline wanted things to be done, they by God got done, and all with a speed and efficiency that kept Rhiannon wide-eyed in amazement. 

Of course, Rhiannon thought, being able to throw fistfulls of money about certainly didn't hurt.

Now, Rhiannon had an entire wardrobe of dresses: combing gowns, breakfast gowns, tea dresses, evening gowns, afternoon attire - even an elaborate hunting costume, complete right down to the intricately knotted cravat and ostrich feathered tricorner hat. 

The enormous dresser in her bedroom groaned beneath the weight of silk stockings, lacy and delicate underthings, and soft nightgowns for summer and winter. No corsets, however; Lady Evangeline's rather graphic lecture of the perils of corsetry on the internal organs and bone structure of their feminine victims, complete with illustrations, had given Rhiannon nightmares for a week. 

A profusion of hats, gloves, scarves, shoes, parasols, shawls, jackets... all the paraphernalia dear to a young woman's heart. Lady Evangeline had taken much pleasure in Rhiannon's delight; when the young woman had protested the amount and cost of her new wardrobe, the peer had ended her objections with a snort. 

''My dear,'' she had said, ''I am a widow of few hobbies and great wealth. Pray, allow me to spend it in a fashion which will gratify me; if my generosity overwhelms you, then consider that you do a favor by indulging me and keep silent on the matter.'' 

Lady Evangline had not told Rhiannon that in indulging the young woman's every unspoken whim, she felt herself assuaged of a tiny bit of the guilt she still felt so keenly; guilt that grew with each passing day as the lady learned more and more about her erstwhile secretary... and grew to love Rhiannon with an intensity that took her breath away. If only I'd rescued her sooner! She is beautiful, intelligent, resourceful and loving. I cannot imagine my life without her in it. Curse lost opportunities! Well, I shall not make the same mistake twice. Having found her a second time, I am determined to never let her go. And equally determined to make up for the suffering she has endured - in any way I can.

Rhiannon allowed herself to be fitted, poked, prodded and preened. On the morning of September 1st, she looked at the figure she presented in the mirror with something approaching satisfaction. 

Her morning dress of robin's egg blue lightweight wool was decorated with swags of black brocade ribbon all along the hem and neckline. A series of tiny onyx buttons flowed in a line from throat to hem; the sleeves were form fitting without constriction, and a froth of spiderweb lace cascaded in tiers from the wrist. Matching lace was wrapped around her throat loosely, tied in a pretty bow in the front in imitation of a gentleman's cravat. 

A small gold lapel watch was pinned to one shoulder - a gift from Lady Evangeline, who had also made a point of picking out some small pieces of jewelry for Rhiannon when they had visited Tiffany's. 

Her red-gold hair was done up in a far looser style than Rhiannon had previously worn; a soft bun nestled at the back of her neck with tiny, curling tendrils framing her heart-shaped face. 

Rhiannon smiled at her reflection; the tawdry, world-weary, tattered prostitute she had been seemed a far cry from the young, competent lady of quality she saw within the mirror. Those terrible few years had left no outward sign of hardship upon her person; Rhiannon carried her scars within. 

She left the room and swept downstairs, calling cheerful greetings to Jackson, the two footmen, Bob and James, and the housemaid, a gangling giantess from Yorkshire, all elbows and knees, who bore the hilariously unsuitable name of Buttercup. 

Rhiannon all but ran into the study, eager to begin the day's duties. As Lady Evangeline's secretary, one of her duties was to transcribe the lady's working notes into sheets of typed foolscap; Rhiannon was still mastering the typewriting machine, but what she lacked in speed, she more than made up for in accuracy, in Lady Evangeline's opinion. 

Rhiannon was also expected to keep the study tidy, perform any research required, keep the bookshelves in order according to Lady Evangeline's particular system, maintain the files that lay within a massive, locked cabinet, and take care of any correspondence, including writing polite letters of rejection to those who still sent the peer invitations to soirees as a matter of social obligation. 

Rhiannon lived for the times she was able to be alone with Lady Evangeline. She adored the peer, and the time she had spent with the other woman only increased the intensity of Rhiannon's affection. 

In truth, Rhiannon felt she was falling in love with Lady Evangeline; the other woman was protector, friend, mentor and savior, all in one. 

Rhiannon had been a little shocked when she had realized that she would like a more physical relationship with Lady Lina; she knew such relationships between women were possible, had seen it between the prostitutes she had known before. Black Janet had explained to her that the women might do it for money with men, but sex between themselves was strictly for affection. 

Despite her feelings, the young woman had made a firm vow to herself; despite the peer's unusual lifestyle and decidedly nonconformist attitudes, she knew the lady would be shocked by the younger woman's feelings. So I'll keep it to myself, she thought, and hope she never realizes the way I feel every time she touches me.

Rhiannon renewed her vow as she walked into the study to find Lady Evangeline, clad in her preferred men's costume, sitting by the fire, staring broodingly into the flames. A cigarette in her hand sent swirls of lacy smoke around her fine boned face. 

''Lady Lina?'' Rhiannon asked, ''Would you like me to begin with letters or files? Or is there some research I need to do? Oh, I almost forgot. How did it go last night?'' 

Lady Evangeline waved a dismissive hand. ''The Duchess has her letters, my dear,'' she replied a little wearily, ''and even as we speak, the blackmailer is fleeing for the Continent, detectives hot on his heels. I managed to keep Penelope's indiscretions out of it entirely; the police believe him to have stolen some of the woman's property - specifically, this.'' 

Lady Evangeline opened a small, blue velvet box. Within, a brooch shimmered, the enormous emerald-cut sapphire surrounded by one-carat diamonds, the jewels set within an elaborately scrolled framework of gold. 

''Jackson nipped into the Duchess' home last night and picked this beauty up; it was a gift from one of the Duchess' former admirers - not the blackmailer, I might add. I can only hope Penelope will have enough sense next time to make sure her lover is more honorable than the last. Frankly, I am surprised she has not been blackmailed before, considering her husband's jealous nature and her own lack of discretion.'' 

Rhiannon took the box reverently from the lady's hands, and examined the brooch with naked envy. ''It's magnificent! What are you going to do with it?'' 

''It is for you, my dear.'' Lady Evangeline smiled at the stunned look on Rhiannon's face. ''No one has ever seen it, save the Duchess and her lover. It should be safe to wear. Besides, you should always wear sapphires, Rhiannon. Sapphires and pearls suit your complexion in ways rubies and emeralds never will.'' 

''But... but... I...'' Rhiannon was close to tears. 

''Oh, my dear,'' Lady Evangeline said, ''Pray, do not cry. You shall need some jewels to wear to balls; after all, how can you attract a bevy of beaux without a bauble or two around your pretty neck?'' 

The peer stood up , flicked her cigarette into the fire, and pulled a long string of perfect, creamy pearls from her pocket. ''If you wear this as a choker with the brooch attached, I think it will do admirably. What do you think?'' 

''I don't know how to thank you...'' Rhiannon's pale blue eyes glistened with unshed tears and her heart was almost bursting. 

Lady Evangeline crossed to the other woman and lifted the string of pearls over her neck, then kissed Rhiannon lightly on the forehead. ''Think nothing of it, my dear,'' she said. ''I cannot wear sapphires myself; I prefer moonstones or emeralds.'' 

Lady Evangeline stood so close to Rhiannon that the younger woman could feel the peer's body heat, and smell her unique fragrance of lilac and rose. 

An ache in her lower belly made Rhiannon catch her breath. ''Thank you,'' she breathed, body unconsciously arching as it strove to make further contact with the object of its desire, ''This is beautiful, absolutely beautiful. I can't thank you enough.'' 

Inwardly, Rhiannon prayed that the peer would kiss her again - this time, on her mouth. 

CHAPTER NINE

Lady Evangeline was uncomfortably aware of Rhiannon's closeness. Every fiber of her being screamed at her to take Rhiannon into her arms and kiss her into insensibility. The muscles in her jaw clenched as she wrestled with the twin demons of desire and conscience. 

Despite her ever-increasing feelings of love for the young woman, Lady Evangeline had sworn to never reveal  the true depths of her affection to Rhiannon. She might reciprocate out of some sense of gratitude, the peer thought. Better that we remain friends only; I would rather suffer an aching heart than take her as a lover, knowing there was no love returned on her part. It is enough - it must be enough - that she is here with me and shares my company so joyfully.

Lady Evangeline was not shocked by her own desire for another woman; in fact, she had had female lovers in the past, though those bouts of infatuation had, more often than not, ended in disaster. She had no such fears about Rhiannon; she only wished - sometimes - that she were not quite so honorable. It would be so easy to take advantage of the other woman's vulnerability... 

With an effort, Lady Evangeline turned away from Rhiannon's uptilted face and strode across the room to her desk. There were other matters afoot, things much more important than her relationship with her secretary - or lack thereof. Quietly, she said, ''There has been another murder.'' 

Rhiannon said nothing. Her body still thrummed with the excitement of Lady Evangeline's chaste kiss, but her mind was slowly waking up to the meaning in the peer's words. 

''Another murder? You mean... Jack?'' Rhiannon sank slowly down on the couch. 

''I am afraid so. Mary Ann Nichols was found in Buck's Row at four o'clock yesterday morning by a carpenter named William Cross. The police were summoned. I am going to the morgue this morning to witness the autopsy. You need not accompany me; I will be wearing my men's costume and shall no doubt be quite safe from molestation,'' Lady Evangeline said tightly. 

''Buck's Row is in Spitalfields.'' Rhiannon's voice was flat. ''That's near Whitechapel.'' 

''Yes, it is.'' 

''Why are you doing this, Lina? What can you do that the police cannot?'' 

Lady Evangeline sat down beside Rhiannon and put an arm around the younger woman, a gesture meant to comfort. ''As I have said before, I feel somewhat responsible for those women's deaths. As for what I can do, well, I have friends in places the police do not, in the highest circles of society and the lowest. Any information that can be gained on this man -- even the tiniest clue -- may be enough to stop these killings, bring this madman to justice.'' 

''Do you think he will kill again?'' 

Lady Evangeline thought about the question a moment before replying. ''Yes,'' she said hesitantly, ''I do. I believe that not only will he kill again, he shall keep on killing until the demon that drives him is either dead or subsumed in further insanity. From what you have told me, I believe him to be a gentleman of good family - not the wealthiest but certainly well-to-do. Further, he is English, rather than American or some other foreigner, and is familiar with the London area. Perhaps after viewing the autopsy, I shall know more. Afterwards, I intend to consult with two friends of mine and gather their thoughts about these murders.'' 

Rhiannon gathered her courage. ''I'm going with you.'' 

Lady Evangeline was a little surprised. ''Why, Rhiannon,'' she said, ebony brows raised, ''I should not think you would find an autopsy appealing, considering your unfortunate reaction to my corset lecture.'' 

Rhiannon leaned against the other woman and put an arm around Evangeline's waist. ''I'm going with you,'' Rhiannon said evenly, although her heart trembled, ''I am not afraid. Not if I'm with you.'' 

Rhiannon laid her head on Evangeline's shoulder and closed her eyes, content to merely enjoy the closeness of the moment. She knew that the autopsy would be horrible, yet she could not resist staying at the beautiful peer's side for as long as possible. She only hoped she wouldn't disgrace herself by fainting or vomiting. She vowed to be strong. I do not want her to be ashamed of me, Rhiannon thought. 

After a minute, Lady Evangeline put up a hand and stroked Rhiannon's red-gold hair. Well, my dear, the peer thought, if you insist, I have no choice. I can deny you nothing; even the opportunity to frighten yourself into fits.

Lady Evangeline made a mental note to carry a bottle of smelling salts on her expedition; no doubt it would, at some point, be needed. 

CHAPTER TEN

"It is quite all right, my dear. Heaven knows I fainted the first time I saw an autopsy.'' 

Rhiannon's sweet face still had a greenish tinge. To cold-bloodedly open someone up like that... she shuddered away from the thought. 

Lady Evangeline resisted a smile. ''More smelling salts?'' she asked, holding out the small silver bottle. 

Rhiannon shuddered again. ''No, thank you,'' she replied, ''I have had quite enough for one day as it is.'' 

Lady Evangeline leaned back against the leather seat of the carriage. She was dressed in a gentleman's morning costume: dark woolen suit, white shirt and maroon tie, with a black homburg perched jauntily on her head. Her midnight-dark hair had been tucked beneath the hat; round-rimmed glasses perched on her aristocratic nose gave her the look of a respectable banker. 

The peer rolled an ivory-headed cane between her gloved hands and contemplated lighting a cigarette. Another look at Rhiannon's face and she relented. The poor dear has been through enough already this morning, she thought, although she certainly looks fetching in that dress.

Rhiannon had changed for their outing; she wore a traveling costume of blue-gray wool, simply trimmed in ivory lace with an ecru ribbon wrapped around the waist. Dove gray kidskin gloves covered her dainty hands and a small beaded reticule hung from one wrist. 

A pretty straw hat, decorated with ivory ribbons and a small cluster of dark blue silk flowers, completed the outfit. Rhiannon looked fresh and thoroughly lovely; she might have been a parson's daughter on an outing with a doting uncle. 

Save for my ''uncle'' is a woman, Rhiannon thought, and the thoughts I entertain about her are certainly far from familial. 

They soon arrived at their destination; a modest house in Baker Street, a respectable if hardly wealthy address. Lady Evangeline instructed Henry to take the horses to a nearby stable and see to their comfort; he was himself to have lunch and meet the two women at three o'clock. 

Rhiannon soon found herself comfortably ensconced in a chair, a cup of tea on a table at her side. She had already taken out her small notebook and pencil, prepared to take notes of Lady Evangeline's conversation with the legendary Sherlock Holmes. 

Holmes was a lean, saturnine man whose temples were already sprinkled with gray. His dark eyes flashed with intelligence and impatience; Rhiannon could see that this was a man who did not tolerate fools well, if at all. Although the morning was well advanced, he still wore a paisley robe with an open throated shirt and gray trousers beneath it. 

''Well, my dear Holmes,'' Lady Evangeline said, ''Have you given up your seven-percent solution?'' 

Holmes smiled. ''Hardly, milady,'' he said dryly, reaching a long arm for his pipe. ''As long as the world is filled with dull, uninteresting people, places and occurrences, I fear cocaine is my only salvation from fatal ennui.'' 

Lady Evangeline laughed a little. ''And what of your friend Watson? Out ministering to the sick?'' 

Holmes pursed his lips. ''Watson has gone to visit that idiot Conan Doyle. There appears to be some difficulty with those ridiculous stories Watson has written. Something to do with authorship credit or some such rot. But enough of this foolishness! Tell me, Lady Lina, to what do I owe the honor of your visit? Your note said only that the matter was of some urgency. Working on another of your cases, perhaps?'' 

Lady Evangeline nodded her head to the silent Rhiannon. ''First, Holmes, perhaps you would indulge in a demonstration of your deductive powers for my friend.'' 

Rhiannon sat breathlessly, afraid to move, as Holmes' piercing eyes roamed over her. 

In a flash, Lady Evangeline realized that she had made a mistake. Holmes would surely recognize Rhiannon, just as she had, and she desperately did not want the young woman to know about their first meeting. For some infathomable and illogical reason, she feared that Rhiannon might leave her if she knew the truth. The faint stirrings of guilt she had felt in the beginning had grown into full-blown anxiety about the subject. She tried to signal Holmes with her eyes... but it was no use. The lady reluctantly relaxed in her seat and silently prayed. 

Holmes had leaned forward to scrutinize the young woman; now he leaned back, his eyes hooded. He took some trouble to light his meerschaum pipe to his satisfaction, then waved out the lucifer and took a deep breath of smoke, allowing it trickle from his lips before he spoke. 

''She is a woman of respectable, though impoverished family. Her father was most likely involved in academia, and either lost his life through some accident or by his own hand. Through no fault of her own, she fell on hard times; I would say that until a short time ago, your friend worked as a prostitute. She is now most honorably employed as a secretary. Despite her unfortunate former circumstances, she is nevertheless a kind-hearted soul, intelligent, observant, well mannered and...'' He stopped. 

Rhiannon held her breath. Surely this must be magic. 

''And that is all I can deduce for the moment, milady,'' he continued after a pause. Holmes smiled at the look of amazement in Rhiannon's pale blue eyes. 

Rhiannon clapped her hands together. ''Oh, Mr. Holmes!'' she said, ''That was marvelous! Tell me how you did it.'' 

''You mean, explain to you the nature of my deductions?'' Holmes shot a glance at the sweating Lady Evangeline. ''Of course. Your speech carries the inflections of the better class, but since by your use of notebook and pencil you are obviously employed in a secretarial capacity, you can hardly be a member of the peerage. Your vocabulary suggests a higher degree of education than can normally be found in young ladies; ergo, you must have been tutored by someone whom you knew well enough to agree to your education; and most likely you grew up in a relatively wealthy household, although you yourself were unrelated to the other householders. 

''That this person was your father was, I admit, not a strictly logical conclusion; I had already deduced that it must have been some member of your family and that the person in question must have been involved in academic studies. Considering your former situation -- possibly as a professor or tutor of some kind?'' 

Rhiannon nodded and Holmes continued, ''The stiffening of your body when I mentioned this conclusion was confirmation of my theory. As to your former profession... forgive me, miss, when I say, that in my work, I have frequently haunted the Whitechapel district, usually in disguise of some sort. I believe you were known as Sugarbaby?'' 

Rhiannon nodded again, shame warring with amazement. ''Yes, that's what the other... ladies called me. You recognized me, then?'' 

''How could I fail to do so? You are, if you will excuse me for mentioning it, hardly a forgettable personage; in fact, in appearance you are quite striking.'' 

''And my father's death?'' 

''What else could have reduced such a lovely, sheltered young woman to such circumstances, save the failure of her guardian to provide? Since you yourself are of such an honorable and good nature, what else could have driven you to such lengths? Hardly abandonment; one's inner strengths and traits of personality are fixed in childhood. Had your parent been a rogue, I doubt that prostitution would be your sole sin. Your father's death answers these questions and more.'' 

''How did you deduce my honorable nature, Mr. Holmes, knowing what you do about my circumstances?'' 

Holmes smiled widely. ''My dear Miss Rhiannon,'' he said, ''If you are considered a friend by Lady Evangeline, you can hardly be anything but good and honorable.'' 

Lady Evangeline smiled as well, a flood of relief making her feel as limp. Somehow, Holmes had seen her distress and been as discreet as possible. She knew she would have to provide him with an explanation but that would come later. Much later, she thought. For now it is enough that I am saved.

Patting her sweaty brow with gloved fingers, Lady Evangeline said to Rhiannon, ''You see, my dear, it is as I have told you. Allow yourself to believe in your own good nature; if any cannot see it, then it is they who are dishonorable, blind fools -- not you.'' 

Rhiannon nodded mutely, struggling to keep from crying. She wished she did not cry so often; it made her feel weak and she desperately wanted to be strong. 

Rhiannon was startled by a touch on her hand. It was Holmes, who had risen from his chair and was standing next to her. ''Miss Rhiannon,'' he said, ''no tears, please. I can see that you have a sensitive nature; I blame myself for bringing up so upsetting a subject.'' 

Turning back to Lady Evangeline, Holmes winked at her surreptitiously and continued, ''Now, enough of drama and more facts! My dear Lady Lina, I insist you tell me at once what you are doing in that ridiculous costume and the purpose of your visit. I am not a patient man...'' 

Lady Evangeline interrupted Holmes with a laugh, good humor fully restored. ''All right, you tyrant! It has to do with the murders in Whitechapel; specifically, Spitalfields...'' 

Holmes listened intently. He had returned to his seat and was slumped down, legs stretched before him, eyes hooded and hands clasped across his chest, index fingers extended and touching. 

When Lady Evangeline finished, Holmes grunted. ''Common murder. I had hoped for something a bit more in my own line.'' 

''You mean priceless gems, international treaties and the stuff by which kingdoms rise and fall?'' Lady Evangeline fixed the recumbent detective with sea-green eyes that sparkled with amusement. Then more seriously, she continued, ''I fear, Holmes, it is as you have said: murder, but not common. There is a madman stalking the streets of London and no woman is safe.'' 

''True,'' the detective said musingly, ''he may slaughter a lady of quality next.'' 

Rhiannon started to protest, then closed her mouth with a click as she recognized the gleam of sardonic humor in Holmes' dark eyes. He continued, ''I believe you attended Miss Nichols' autopsy this morning?'' 

Lady Evangeline began to ask Holmes how he had come to that singular conclusion, then stopped. At the look on her face, the detective let out a bark of laughter. ''Lady Lina, why else would you come calling dressed in men's clothing? And I know your curiosity as well as you know my methods. So, tell me, what did Dr. Llewellyn find?'' 

Lady Evangeline glanced at Rhiannon, whose face resembled a stone mask. ''There was a bruise on her face; possibly, the murder kept his hand over her mouth to prevent her from screaming. The cause of death was strangulation. The body had been cut from throat to stomach; none of the organs were missing, however, her two front teeth had been removed with some force. They were not found anywhere near the body.'' After a pause, she continued, ''Afterward, I spoke to a very helpful police sergeant.'' 

Holmes nodded. ''That would be our friend, Harry Dorset?'' 

''The very one. He told me that on the evening of the murder, Nichols had been turned away from a four-pence doss house; she had no money, despite having 'worked' most of the evening. Most likely she drank it away; her liver was quite enlarged. At any rate, there were no witnesses. Despite sleeping people only yards away from the scene, and workers of every description both returning home and leaving for their place of employment... No one saw or heard anything.'' 

''And you believe that this murder, and the previous murder of Martha Turner a few weeks ago, are all the work of the same man? A man known only to you as 'Jack?''' 

Lady Evangeline nodded. ''I blame myself, Holmes. I should have incapacitated him when I had the chance. Poor Rhiannon barely escaped with her life.'' 

Holmes shrugged. ''You cannot take responsibility for a madman's actions, Lina. That course is insanity as well.'' 

Lady Evangeline leaned forward, voice and face intense. ''I must stop him, Holmes. I must! I will do everything in my power to see him caught and hanged!'' She paused, calming herself, then continued, ''Can you help me?'' 

''Hmmmm,'' Holmes said, stroking his chin. ''I do not suppose you wish me to conjure up this man from thin air? No? Then, as long as you do not expect miracles, I shall do what I can.'' 

Lady Evangeline rose. ''Thank you, Holmes,'' she said gratefully. ''If you have anything to impart, any news, or if I can help you in any way, do not hesitate to contact me.'' She gathered up her hair and placed the homburg back on her head. ''Knowing you are on the case as well makes me feel much better about my chances of success.'' 

Holmes rose as well. ''Do not underestimate your own formidable powers. And... let us keep this our secret, shall we? If Watson should get his teeth into it...'' 

Lady Evangeline laughed. ''I shall, Holmes, never fear. The good doctor's fevered imagination and romantic nature would make a veritable hash of the case, I imagine.'' 

As Rhiannon allowed herself to be taken by the arm by the peer and led away, the echo of Holmes' chuckle stayed with her for a long time, indeed.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Next, the two women paid a call on another of Lady Evangeline's friends, an author by the name of Rhoda Broughton. 

''She is Sheridan Le Fanu's niece and an author in her own right, although her works are not well regarded. In fact, when her book, Cometh Up as a Flower, was first published, the entire peerage went up in flames of indignation and censure,'' Lady Evangeline explained with a hint of a twinkle in her green eyes. 

Rhiannon nodded. She had never read any of the lady's works herself, but was eager to meet with any friend of the peer's. Sheridan Le Fanu was more familiar; his eerie supernatural stories were particular favorites of hers. 

Rhoda Broughton turned out to be a vigorous, deep bosomed woman with a profusion of kinky blonde locks and vivid violet-blue eyes. Although she was forty-eight, she still retained much in the way of youthful good looks due to her energetic nature and sheer force of intellect. 

''My dear Lina,'' Rhoda said in a deep voice, ''What a pleasant surprise!'' 

The two women hugged while Rhiannon looked on with a twinge of jealously. It was clear that Lady Evangeline and this Broughton woman were close. 

''So tell me, Lina, what brings you to visit the most scandalous woman in London?'' 

''I was only making sure you had not yet been tarred and feathered, Rho!'' Both women laughed. Rhiannon sat down on an ottoman, feeling very much the third wheel. 

''Rho, allow me the pleasure of introducing Miss Rhiannon Moore, my secretary and very good friend. Rhiannon, this is Rho Broughton, the most notorious writer in London.'' 

Rhiannon gracefully shook Rhoda's proffered hand. ''How do you do?'' she murmured politely. 

Rhoda's violet-blue eyes looked at her sharply. ''My word, such a long face! Lina, you had best cheer this child up and soon. Otherwise, her chin will be around her ankles and the only employment she shall find will be as an exhibit at the British Museum.'' Rhoda smiled widely, showing a tiny gap between her two front teeth. 

All three women laughed, Rhiannon with relief. It was clear that Rhoda considered Lina a good friend and no more. No longer feeling threatened, she allowed herself to relax. 

As Lady Evangeline quickly explained the purpose of their visit, Rhiannon looked around the parlor. Potted palms, ferns and other plants filled the room; the furniture was heavy but upholstered quite simply in pale green silk. The walls were papered in gold and white, and hung with framed watercolors and daguerreotypes of severe looking men and women. 

Every table was covered in a crocheted cloth, and practically creaked beneath the weight of numerous china knick-knacks, what-nots and miscellaneous gee-gaws. The whole effect was one of alternating claustrophobia and light. 

Lady Evangeline finished her tale and waited expectantly, hands folded in her lap. 

Rhoda's brow was crinkled in thought. After a moment, she said heavily, ''Lina, what do you expect of me? I am not a detective, you know. And frankly, I find the entire circumstances almost too horrible to contemplate.'' 

''Rho, I need your special insight into human nature. Among all my acquaintances and friends, I believe that none can suit my purposes as well as you. Even that Viennese alienist - Fried? No, Freud, could do no better. I must understand this man's motivations, his character, his reasoning. Only by knowing him have I any chance at all of stopping him. Please, Rho... can you help me? Will you use your gift in my behalf?'' 

Rhiannon watched Rhoda's inward struggle. Finally, the blonde woman sighed. ''All right, Lina. I shall help you. It will not be easy; the task you have set for me is one that makes my soul cringe in horror; nevertheless, I shall give you what aid I can.'' 

Rhiannon scribbled hasty notes as Rhoda closed her eyes and began her analysis. ''First, this is a man filled with rage and hatred specifically directed against women. I refuse to speculate on the probable cause of this hatred; it is enough to say that he feels he must act out his violent fantasies on some female whom he feels safe to consider a victim. 

''Whether his choice of prostitutes as victims is significant or not, I cannot tell. Certainly, he may be choosing them because of ready availability and lack of social protection, or he may be targeting them more specifically -- possibly as a means of revenge against some wrong he feels done to him by ladies of that profession. 

''The bodily mutilations you have described are indicative of his violent nature. They also suggest that this Jack is rapidly degenerating, his control over his murderous impulses becoming more difficult to contain. He will certainly attempt to kill again; the next victim will probably be more severely mutilated. 

''I do not consider him a pure sadist; that is, he does not feel a sense of enjoyment over his victim's pain and suffering. Both times, the women were killed almost instantly. Even during Rhiannon's attack, he attempted to sever her throat first. This would certainly indicate that he receives more satisfaction from the act of killing itself and from the fulfillment of his bloody fantasies than from his victim's suffering. 

''Finally, his inability to consummate sexual relations only adds fuel to the fire. Jack is a frustrated, violent individual who has lost control and will only continue to vent his frustrations and anger on his victims unless and until he is stopped.'' 

Rhoda opened her eyes. ''And that, my dear Lina, is all you shall get from me. I can do no more; contact with such an evil mind has left me quite shaken.'' 

Indeed, Rhoda's lips were pale and her round face ashen. Lady Evangeline said simply, ''Rho, I cannot thank you enough. I know how much it hurts you to employ your gift...'' 

Rhoda waved her away wearily. ''Lina, I love you and you are my friend. But I would wish you to go away for a while. I must recover from my ordeal.'' 

Without another word, Lady Evangeline gathered up her hat, gloves and cane and motioned Rhiannon away. Rhiannon's last sight of Rhoda Broughton was of the buxom blonde woman face, wet with tears. 

CHAPTER TWELVE

For an increasingly frustrating week, Lady Evangeline haunted the stews of Whitechapel in various guises, seeking information from pimps, prostitutes, cut-throats and thieves; she also made the rounds of her society acquaintances -- including the actress-turned-grande-horizontal, Lillie Langtry. 

''That red-haired witch!'' Lady Evangeline fumed over dinner that evening. ''All coy hints and batting lashes -- bah! If she knew nothing about the subject, why play the coquette?'' 

Rhiannon paused in the action of bring a forkful of potatoes to her mouth. ''Because,'' she said a little acidly, ''Miss Langtry hoped that her flirtatious manner would spark some interest on your part. Obviously.'' 

Lady Evangeline was speechless. The thought had never occurred to her. Her eyes narrowed as she studied the woman across from her at the dining table. 

The room was lit with the glow of dozens of candles; Rhiannon's red-gold hair, done up in an elaborate twist with a pair of corkscrewing curls in front of each ear, gleamed in the soft light like a precious jewel. Her gown was so dark a blue as to appear almost black; the velvet surface with its sprinkling of shimmering diamante appeared to be a piece of the evening sky. 

The gown's neckline was cut low enough to reveal Rhiannon's spectacular cleavage; there, nestled in the center of her decollete, hung the fabulous sapphire brooch, held by a triple strand of pearls around her neck. 

A pair of sapphire and pearl earrings dangled from her delicate ears and a bangle of gold encircled Rhiannon's wrist. Good Lord! Lady Evangeline thought, she is a vision. A vision of perfection!

Rhiannon noticed Lady Evangeline's eyes on her and raised her own, the better to study her table mate. 

Lina wore an eau-de-Nil evening gown encrusted with beads in graduated colors of every shade of green. Every time she drew breath, the beads coruscated in the candlelight like sunlight on ocean waves. 

Ink-black hair had been carefully arranged in a series of narrow, criss-crossing braids that came together in a great knot at the back of her neck. Her sea-green eyes were made even more brilliant by the string of square-cut emeralds she wore around her neck, with a pair of matching earrings and a diamond and emerald ring on her hand. 

Rhiannon thought that her heart would collapse from sheer over excitement. She's so beautiful! If only, she thought, if only I could be sure!

Many times over the past weeks, Rhiannon had seen a speculative gleam in Lady Evangeline's eyes when she'd thought the other woman hadn't been paying attention. Rhiannon had, in fact, been paying most scrupulous attention; the beautiful peer could not make a move that Rhiannon did not see. 

''Um, er, yes, well, Lady Lina, I suppose you couldn't be expected to notice such things, being a lady of quality and all,'' Rhiannon said. 

Lady Evangeline smirked and raised her glass of wine. ''My dear Rhiannon,'' she said, ''you would be surprised at some of the things I notice.'' 

Is she flirting with me? Rhiannon thought wildly as the peer took a healthy gulp of wine. No, it can't be. She's had a little too much to drink; that, and all the frustration of not being able to get any farther in the case.

The two women continued their meal in silence, both of them hoping for some gesture from the other... but that gesture, to their silent, mutual disappointment, never came. 

Later that evening, Rhiannon was awakened by a knock on her door. Rubbing her eyes, she muttered sleepily, ''C'm in.'' 

It was Lady Evangeline, who held a lamp up in one hand. She was dressed in a man's nightshirt, revealing strong, shapely legs and an outline which, while muscular, was nevertheless thoroughly female. ''Rhiannon. There has been another murder. I am going out shortly; I hope to examine the scene myself before the police have obliterated all the clues.'' 

Rhiannon began to struggle out of bed, but Lady Evangeline waved her back. ''No, no, my dear, you stay and rest. I only wanted to let you know where I would be going; it may be some time before I am able to return and I did not want you to worry. Good night.'' 

Rhiannon let her head flop back onto the plump feather pillow as the lady bustled away. How can I sleep now, knowing she may be heading into danger?

It would prove to be a sleepless night for both women, but for far different reasons. 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Lady Evangeline did not return until the late afternoon; by that time, Rhiannon was nearly frantic and paced back and forth, trying to decide between going out herself in search of the missing peer or sending the redoubtable Jackson. 

''Where have you been?'' asked Rhiannon, shrill with worry, as the exhausted peer stumbled into the study. 

Lady Evangeline's eyes were dulled with lack of sleep and sheer horror. ''My dear, I am mortally glad you did not insist on going. It was terrible, truly terrible.'' 

Rhiannon made Lady Evangeline hold her explanations until she had gotten the other woman settled, an afghan around her knees and a stiff whiskey-and-soda in her hand. Despite her tired state, Lady Evangeline had to smile at Rhiannon's fussing. 

Finally, having gotten the peer settled to her satisfaction, and making sure Jackson had been dispatched to fetch a tray from Cook, Rhiannon subsided, sinking down on an ottoman near Lady Evangeline, who reclined on a sofa. 

''What happened? Can you tell me?'' Rhiannon asked softly. 

''Of course, my dear. Indeed; why don't you fetch your notebook and pencil. I should like to get this all down while it is fresh in my mind.'' 

When Rhiannon settled into her ''secretarial mode,'' as Lady Evangeline teasingly referred to the other woman's business-like air, the peer sipped her whiskey-and-soda and recited her tale. 

''Well, I was able to reach Spitalfields before the police had carried away the body. 29 Hanbury Street, to be exact. The poor woman was found huddled against a fence. A few pennies, farthings and a pair of brass rings were arranged at her feet. 

''Like poor Mary Nichols, this woman's front teeth had been removed. Mr. Phillips, the police's divisional surgeon in Spitalfields, unwound a handkerchief that had been wrapped around her neck. When he did so, her head nearly fell off her torso; the severance of her throat was so violent, it nearly cut through the spine.'' 

Ignoring Rhiannon's gasp of horror, Lady Evangeline continued. ''A bloody leather apron was found beneath a water tap. Whether it belonged to the killer or not is a matter of speculation. 

''Phillips removed the body to the mortuary. He happens to know of my interest in the case; in fact, I spoke to him about the Nichols' autopsy. Unlike many of his fellows, Phillips has no grudge against a woman investigator. He willingly shared his knowledge with me and allowed me to observe the examination. 

''When her clothing was removed at the morgue, we discovered that this women's injuries were more extensive than Nichols. 

''In addition to numerous stab wounds, incisions had been made in her back and abdomen. Careful examination revealed that certain internal organs had been removed. Since they were not found at the scene, it can only be assumed that Jack took them with him for purposes unknown. 

''I was told that an envelope, bearing the crest of the Sussex Regiment, and with a corner missing, was found on the body. It was soaked in blood. 

''After an examination of her underclothes, and subsequent investigation by police officers, the body has been identified as one Annie Chapman -- a well-known prostitute in the East End. 

''And,'' the peer concluded wearily, ''I have been over every inch of the scene and spoken to nearly every inhabitant in every hovel within a hundred yards. Amazingly, no one heard or saw anything unusual last night. If it were not for the fact that I grappled with him myself, I would swear this Jack was a ghost, able to waft away into the fog, as insubstantial as the so-called facts in this case.'' 

Rhiannon finished and put down the notebook and pencil. ''Why don't you rest for a while?'' she asked. ''Eat something. Jackson should be here soon with a tray.'' 

When Lady Evangeline showed signs of struggling up, Rhiannon's red-gold brows came together in a frown. ''I insist that you rest!'' she said forcefully, actually placing one hand on the astonished peer's chest and pushing her back onto the sofa. ''If you promise to eat, then get some sleep, I'll type these notes into your files.'' 

Lady Evangeline ceased her struggles, hard pressed not to laugh at the way the shy Rhiannon turned into a lioness when she thought the peer was pressing herself too hard. ''All right, my little extortionist,'' she chuckled, ignoring Rhiannon's pale blue glare. ''I will lie here quietly while you type away on that beastly machine. And I promise to eat, although you must not expect my appetite to be terribly keen, considering the things I have seen today.'' 

''Why do you push yourself like this? I'm sure the police are doing everything they can.'' 

''The POLICE!'' the peer roared, suddenly furious, ''The police are a pack of maundering idiots who would be hard pressed to find their buttocks with both hands! If you had heard the... the... the rot they call their theories! First, he is a foreigner, then a mad surgeon, perhaps a barber. Or a butcher. That 'Leather Apron' theory will flummox them yet. And the journalists are only adding fuel to the fire! Some fool is even going around muttering darkly about Jews and masonry and occult ritual! Mark my words, my dear, mark them well... some poor innocent is going to wind up swinging from a vigilante's rope if something is not done soon.'' 

''What can you do that isn't already being done?'' Rhiannon's eyes were dark with anxiety. 

With a visible effort, Lady Evangeline calmed. ''Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything. I do not know.'' The raven-haired beauty lay back and closed her eyes. 

Rhiannon left Lady Evangeline to her thoughts - and began entertaining some of her own. 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

On September 27, both women read a letter purporting to be from the murderer, who now styled himself ''Jack the Ripper.'' It had been sent to the Central News Agency; Holmes' brother, Mycroft, had received a copy from his police contacts, and a messenger had arrived that morning, bearing the document, ''With Mr. Holmes compliments.'' 

Dated September 25, the letter read: 

Dear Boss, 

I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they wont fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I cant use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope ha... ha. The next job I do I shall slip the ladys ears off and send them to the police officers just for jolly wouldn't you. Keep this letter buck till I do a bit more work, then give it out straight. My knife's so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good Luck.

Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper. 

Dont mind me giving the trade name. PS Wasnt good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands curse it. No luck yet. They say I'm a doctor now. ha ha

''Do you think it's authentic?'' Rhiannon asked. 

Lady Evangeline thought a moment. ''Yes,'' she said slowly, ''I do. The writer has obviously been decently educated; despite the somewhat illiterate tone, there are no misspellings - even difficult words such as 'squeal' and 'knife'- and most of the rules of grammar, if not punctuation, have been preserved. And he is obviously following the press notices; he refers to the 'Leather Apron' and doctor theories that have been put forth by the police.'' 

Lady Evangeline sighed and handed the paper to Rhiannon. ''Place that in the file, if you please. I fear there will be another murder before too long. I have been able to unearth nothing; nothing but speculation, rumor and fantasy. Blast! Even Rho's analysis has been of little help.'' 

As Rhiannon bustled away, Lady Evangeline's eyes followed her figure with appreciation. This morning, the younger woman wore a gown the shade of Baltic amber, its flounced hem, neckline and sleeves tiered with navy blue ribbon and swags of blonde lace. A trio of thick red-gold braids, doubled under and secured with navy ribbons, bobbed becomingly at the base of her neck. 

Rhiannon was aware that she was being watched. She swayed her hips in an exaggerated roll as she moved to the cabinet, feeling Lady Evangeline's eyes on her body. She bent to place the key in the lock and risked a look at the peer from beneath thick lashes. Tiny beads of sweat had formed on Lina's upper lip. Rhiannon smiled wickedly to herself. 

Lady Evangeline shifted uncomfortably in her chair and finally tore her eyes away from Rhiannon's lush figure. My Lord! she thought, I have never felt this way in my life! I am practically ready to throw Rhiannon to the floor and...

She did not complete the thought, ashamed that naked lust would even cause her to consider attacking Rhiannon like a crazed sex maniac. I must control myself! And, she concluded ruefully, take more cold baths. 

As Rhiannon slid the paper into the thick file, she thought, Well, well, well. So the lady isn't made of ice after all!

The bodies of Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes were discovered on the morning of October 1st. Inspector Harry Dorset, a friend of both Lady Evangeline's and Sherlock Holmes', sent a message to both with news of the double homicide. 

That same morning, Holmes' messenger, a rat-faced member of his Baker Street Irregulars, arrived with another letter. 

It, too, had been sent to the Central News Agency and was dated September 30. The letter read: 

I was not coddling dear old Boss when I gave you the tip, you'll hear about Saucy Jacky's work tomorrow double event this time number one squealed a bit couldn't finish straight off. ha not the time to get ears for police. thanks for keeping last letter back till I got to work again. Jack the Ripper

It was accompanied by a note from Holmes. Lady Evangeline scanned it quickly. ''Holmes says the original letter was bloodstained and written on the back of a common postcard, a type which is readily available in more than one hundred stationers around the metropolitan area of London. The police are of the opinion that both letters were written by a journalist.'' Lady Evangeline snorted. ''The more fools they, say I.'' 

Turning to Rhiannon, the peer continued, ''Well, I must get down to the morgue, my dear. I am expecting a visitor around two o'clock; if I am not back by then, will you see to his comfort until I return?'' 

''Oh, of course, Lina,'' Rhiannon replied. ''Shall I have Cook make tea?'' 

''Yes, yes, that would be splendid,'' Lady Evangeline replied somewhat absently. Her mind was already far away in a police morgue. 

''Who are you expecting?'' 

''A clairvoyant,'' Lady Evangeline replied, adjusting the navy blue and gold tie around her throat. For her outing, she was dressed in a man's pinstriped navy blue and white suit. She scooped up her gloves and a black homburg and turned to leave. 

''What's his name?'' Rhiannon asked desperately. 

Lady Evangeline's reply was muffled as she strode away. ''Robert James Lees.''

Mr. Lees proved to be a delicate looking gentleman with thinning auburn hair, a scraggly mustache, and watery blue eyes. 

Rhiannon was growing desperate. She had run out of polite conversation a quarter of an hour ago; there were only so many inquiries one could make about the state of another's health and the weather. It was with a vast sense of relief that the woman heard Lady Evangeline's distinct voice echoing from the front hall. 

''Mr. Lees,'' Rhiannon said, suppressing a sigh, ''I believe Lady Evangeline has arrived.'' 

Immediately, the auburn haired man perked up. Lady Evangeline swept into the room, pulling the homburg from her head and flinging her gloves onto a chair. 

''My dear Bobby!'' she said expansively, ''Thank you for coming!'' 

The delicate man, so slightly built it seemed that a stiff wind might blow him away, nodded. ''Lina, you know I would do anything for you.'' His voice was unexpectedly deep; Rhiannon had thought upon first hearing it that the effect was rather like seeing a piccolo and hearing a bassoon. 

Lady Evangeline plopped herself into a chair and reached for the cup of tea offered by Rhiannon. ''Bobby, I am sure you have heard of this 'Leather Apron' business?'' 

''You mean Jack the Ripper?'' Lees asked with a smug smile. 

''How did you know that? Those letters have yet to be published!'' 

''I have my sources, my good woman. Besides, I had a vision which revealed some of the facts in the case.'' 

''Ah, I had hoped as much. Tell me all.'' Lady Evangeline's sea-green eyes were intense, locked on the slight, auburn haired figure in front of her. 

With a small sigh, Rhiannon took out her notebook and pencil to record the clairvoyant's story. 

''It began last month, actually,'' he began, prissily smoothing his sparse mustache, ''when I had a vivid vision of a woman's murder. It was so clear I could read the writing on the side of the building where she was killed -- George Yard Buildings.'' 

Lady Evangeline breathed, ''Martha Turner.'' 

''Precisely.'' Lees took a sip of tea. ''I naturally informed the police at once. As the Queen herself is my patron, I could do no less. They scoffed, of course. Then a few weeks later, the murder actually took place. I read about it in The Times and was quite terrified.'' 

''And then?'' Lady Evangeline asked. 

''Well, I have had no other visions as of yet, although I hope to be able to identify the murder. I have seen him, my dear, as clear as day. Such eyes!'' He shuddered. ''I shall never forget that bestial face as long as I live!'' 

''Would it be possible for you to sketch the face you have seen? Or describe it well enough for someone else to sketch?'' 

''I have already done so.'' Lees pulled a folded sheet of paper from one coat pocket. ''I contacted an artist friend of mine; the likeness is extraordinary.'' 

The paper contained an artist's sketch in pencil. Lady Evangeline recognized it at once. She passed the paper to Rhiannon, who gasped and dropped her pencil. ''That's him!'' the younger woman exclaimed. 

''Thank you for your time, Bobby.'' Lady Evangeline rose and extended a hand to the clairvoyant. ''I certainly appreciate it. If you should have any other visions...'' 

The little auburn-haired man rose and shook Lady Evangeline's hand, saying, ''Of course, Lina. You shall be the first to know.'' 

''May we keep this sketch?'' Lady Evangeline asked as the small man turned to go. 

''With my compliments,'' he replied with a twinkle. Giving a small bow to the speechless Rhiannon, Lees left. 

''By God!'' said Lady Evangeline, thumping her fist into one hand. ''Now we have him!'' 

Looking at the sketch in her hand, Rhiannon was not so sure. 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

That evening, Lady Evangeline was engrossed in the notes she had taken at the two autopsies. Rhiannon sat by the fire, her hair down from its confining braids, reading a book. Lady Evangeline looked at the other woman; the firelight flickered on Rhiannon's red-gold hair and it shimmered like a shawl woven of finest silk. 

''You should wear your hair down more often, my dear,'' Lady Evangeline said. ''It is extraordinarily beautiful.'' 

''I admire your own hair, Lina,'' Rhiannon replied, closing the book and looking at her employer. ''You look so aristocratic; especially in that dress.'' 

Lady Evangeline glanced down at herself, ebony brows raised. She wore a simple ''surprise'' dress of black wool; its sides could be unbuttoned and fastened back, revealing leaf-green embroidered reveres. ''It is several years out of date, Rhiannon. Then again, I am hardly a slave to Dame Fashion.'' 

Rhiannon stood up and crossed to the desk where Lady Evangeline sat, perching herself carefully on the edge nearest the peer. ''Even if you wore sackcloth and ashes, Lina, you would still be beautiful.'' 

Lady Evangeline swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. ''No, my dear. You are beautiful -- your face, your figure.'' Your soul, she added silently, then said aloud, ''You are perfect just as you are.'' 

Rhiannon leaned back, supporting herself on one arm. She knew this position would throw her ample bust into prominence. ''You have a classic profile, you know,'' she purred. ''Those cheekbones. That mouth. Even your nose.'' She ran a playful finger down the other woman's nose, stifling a giggle when the startled peer jumped a little. 

Ah, Lady Evangeline thought, two can play that game! Casually, she reached down and took Rhiannon's foot in her hands. Removing the slipper, the raven haired woman began to massage the foot with strong yet gentle fingers, smiling inwardly when Rhiannon gasped. 

''And you, my dear, have beautiful feet,'' the peer said. ''So slim. So fine boned.'' 

Rhiannon gasped again, arching her back as electric sensations rippled through her body. I never knew having my foot touched could do this to me! she thought wildly. 

Suddenly, a gentle knock on the door of the study interrupted the two women's seductive play. Immediately, Rhiannon jumped off the desk, scooping her slipper from the floor, and hopped across the room, pulling it on. ''Come in!'' she called. 

Lady Evangeline silently cursed, resisting the urge to make the savage invective audible. Jackson walked into the room silently. 

''A message for you, milady,'' he said, proffering a silver tray. 

Lady Evangeline took the envelope and tore it open with a silver letter opener as Jackson let himself out. 

''It's from Holmes,'' the peer said, scanning the contents of the letter, former activities forgotten. ''He has finally found out what the writing was on the brick wall where Catherine Eddowes' body was found.'' 

Rhiannon gave her a confused look. ''Ah,'' Lady Evangeline said, ''I see I neglected to mention that detail. A message was written in chalk on a wall next to the body. A bloody piece of apron was found just beneath. That idiot Commissioner, Sir Charles Warren, ordered it to be scrubbed away before a photograph could be made.'' 

''I see,'' Rhiannon said. ''What did it say?'' 

''It read: 'The Juwes are the men That Will not be blamed for nothing.''' She pronounced the word, 'Joo-wez.' ''Ah! I now see why Sir Charles wished the evidence removed, though he could have allowed it to be photographed first.'' 

''What do you mean?'' 

''No doubt our good Commissioner fears further rioting against the Jews should this provocative message be made public. Well, I fear it will do him little good. Vigilante groups are already patrolling Whitechapel; just the other day a butcher was nearly lynched by an angry mob. There will be more violence before this dance is finished, I warrant.'' 

The next fortnight passed as if the murders had never taken place. Lady Evangeline escorted a bewildered Rhiannon on a whirlwind tour of London -- they saw Henry Irving play Hamlet at Covent Gardens; an operetta entitled ''The Mikado'' by Gilbert and Sullivan at the Lyceum; they dined on the most sumptuous foods at noted restaurants such as Plum's and Simpson's. 

The two women made day excursions to the British Museum and Madame Toussard's Waxwork Museum. Lady Evangeline also bought Rhiannon more hats, gloves, reticules, and jewelry, showering the young woman with gifts, including daily bouquets of flowers. 

Rhiannon felt as if she were being courted and she reveled in every minute. I have never been so happy in my life! she thought breathlessly. 

However, a twinge of disappointment kept her happiness from being complete. Since that night of mutual seduction, Lady Evangeline had never repeated her display of affection -- indeed, the other woman appeared to have forgotten the matter entirely. 

Rhiannon had tried every trick she knew to get the peer's attention. She had flirted madly; frequently touching the raven-haired beauty, including ''accidental'' brushes and caresses that were anything but. 

Rhiannon had even begun parading around after hours in a sheer, midnight blue nightgown that left little to the imagination, pretending that she did not know how revealing the gown was -- all to no avail. Rhiannon was beginning to believe that she had been mistaken; Lady Evangeline was not interested in her at all, at least, not in the way the younger woman desperately wanted. 

For her part, Lady Evangeline's self control had been taxed nearly to the breaking point. It had taken all her formidable strength of will not to act on those excruciating desires that welled up and threatened to overflow. The sight of Rhiannon prancing about, night after night, dressed in a flimsy little nothing that revealed her charms to the utmost, and apparently quite unconscious of the effect, almost drove the peer mad. 

Now, after a fortnight of enduring the exquisite torture that was Rhiannon, Lady Evangeline was having second thoughts about her decision to leave the pretty secretary alone. 

She had already explained to Holmes about her decision to keep the circumstances of their first meeting from Rhiannon. He had scoffed and mocked, telling the peer that her ''delicate'' sensibilities and feelings of guilt were, in his own words, ''pure tosh.'' But he nonetheless respected her feelings and remained silent. 

Lady Evangeline wanted Rhiannon; she knew that this was the woman. But how to win her? Crass seduction was out of the question; instead, she decided to woo her, charm her... perhaps it would be enough. And it provided a welcome distraction from the frustrations of her investigation; she had hit a dead end and was getting nowhere. 

How to show I love her without frightening her away? It was a conundrum that was proving as hard to crack as Jack the Ripper's identity. 

The two woman were in Lady Evangeline's study, quietly reading. A small posy of white rosebuds and ferns was pinned to the lapel of Rhiannon's peacock blue dress - another gift from the peer. 

Jackson, after a deferential knock, entered the room. ''You have a caller, milady.'' 

''Who is it?'' Lady Evangeline asked, setting aside her book. 

''Mr. George Lusk, milady. I gather he is the President of the Whitechapel Vigilante Committee. He did not present a card, but he claims that the matter is quite urgent.'' 

''Ah. '' Lady Evangeline sat up and straightened the folds of her dress. This morning she wore an ecru skirt embroidered in cranberry red and forest green; a forest green shirtwaist, the neck buttons undone, completed her toilette. ''Send him in, if you please. And kindly bring in some fresh tea.'' 

Mr. George Lusk was a mustachioed and mutton-chopped gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair and a nervous air. He came into the study, bunched fists thrust into the pockets of his trousers. 

''Good afternoon, ladies,'' he said. ''Sorry to disturb you, your ladyship, but I was told you'd be the person to speak to about all this.'' 

Lady Evangeline motioned for Lusk to sit down. ''What can I do for you, Mr. Lusk?'' 

''Well, you see, this morning a parcel came for me. A little cardboard box about this big.'' He held his thick fingers approximately three inches apart. ''Anyhow, I opened it up and got the shock of my life, I tell you!'' 

Lady Evangeline made encouraging noises, eyes fixed on their visitor. Lusk continued, ''I opened it up, see, and found a letter. From that Ripper fellow. And... and...'' He swallowed heavily. ''A ki...'' His voice trailed off. 

''I beg your pardon, Mr. Lusk? A what?'' 

Lusk swallowed again. ''I said a kidney, your ladyship. Or, at least, half of one. It had been preserved in wine or some such. I called the police straight away, and one of them asked me to come 'round and tell you what I seen. So I did.'' 

Lady Evangeline's face tightened with concentration. ''Half a kidney, eh?'' she said. ''Was it human?'' 

Lusk's own face took on a greenish tinge. ''I couldn't say, your ladyship. The policeman took the whole part and parcel with him. I only come 'cause he asked me to. Don't remember what the note read, either,'' he said a little sullenly. 

At that, Lady Evangeline rose. ''I do thank you for your trouble, my good man.'' She pressed several pound notes into Lusk's hand. ''Please, accept this for your trouble.'' 

Lusk made a half-hearted protest, but his hands clutched the money tightly. Lady Evangeline pulled the bellcord to summon her butler/housekeeper. ''Again, you have my enduring thanks, Mr. Lusk,'' she called as Jackson escorted the stammering man from the room. Lady Evangeline turned to Rhiannon, her eyes alight. 

Before she could say anything, Rhiannon interrupted, ''I know, I know. I'll just stay here, shall I? No doubt when you return you will be top-filled with gruesome details and sickening sketches. You really are a ghoul, you know.'' 

Lady Evangeline exited the study, laughing heartily. 

The game was afoot once again. 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The note was scribbled hastily on a piece of cheap stock. There was no date. It read: 'From hell. Mr Lusk, Sor I send you half the Kidne I took from one woman and prasarved it for you tother piece I fried and ate it was very nise. I may send you the bloody knif that took it out if you only wate a while longer.' It was signed: 'Catch me when you can Mishter Lusk.'' Lady Evangeline handed her notebook to Rhiannon and waited. 

Rhiannon perused the page. ''Do you believe it is from the same man?'' 

''At the police station, I persuaded Henry Dorset to allow me a glimpse of the other two documents. The handwriting is similar but not identical. However, the discrepancies can be explained by the obvious haste in which this 'From Hell' note was written.'' 

''There are a lot of misspellings, aren't there? It seems to be the work of an illiterate.'' 

Lady Evangeline sat next to Rhiannon on the sofa, using her index finger to point out certain places on the page. ''You'll notice the word 'knif', though missing its ending 'e' is nevertheless spelled with a 'k' - which is unpronounced when spoken. The word 'piece' is also spelled correctly -- 'i before e' and all that; as are the words 'one', 'fried', and 'while'. No, my dear, this is the work of a literate man trying to appear illiterate. Why, I cannot say.'' 

Rhiannon nodded. Now that Lady Evangeline had explained, it made sense. ''And the kidney?'' 

''Human. The police surgeon who examined it believes it to be that of Catherine Eddowes. She suffered from Bright's disease; its effects on that particular organ are unmistakable. And her body was the more mutilated of the two. She had been stabbed repeatedly in the face and body and some of her internal organs were missing.'' 

Rhiannon shivered. ''Long Liz'' Stride's body had been barely touched, save for a slashed throat and a slightly torn ear. Jack had been interrupted before he could complete his heinous deed. No doubt he took out his frustration on poor Catherine Eddowes. 

Lady Evangeline stretched, her thigh rubbing against Rhiannon's. ''Well,'' the peer said with a yawn, ''I think I shall do some reading before luncheon.'' 

''Before you go, Lina, perhaps you can explain something to me.'' 

Lady Evangeline stared into Rhiannon's turquoise blue eyes. ''Of course, my dear. You know I can refuse you nothing.'' 

Rhiannon decided to ignore the provocative remark. ''How does he do it?'' When Lady Evangeline grimaced, Rhiannon quickly explained, ''I mean, how does he walk through the streets covered in blood and no one notices?'' 

''As to that, Rhiannon, I suspect from bruises I have seen on the bodies that the women are strangled first, probably while they are holding up their skirts.'' Rhiannon colored, remembering how she had once ''held up the wall'' for gentlemen clients. 

Lady Evangeline did not notice Rhiannon's flushed face. ''He lowers them to the ground, then severs the throat from the left while he stands on the right. Since his victim is already dead, the flow of blood is not as violent as it might have been. Then, he performs his 'acts' swiftly, with practiced skill. I begin to wonder myself if Jack might be involved with the medical profession; certainly, his extraction of internal organs is extremely precise.'' 

''Surely his hands...'' 

''Oh, well, it is but the work of a moment to wipe his hands on a bit of cloth or even the victim's skirt or apron; his knife as well. Dark clothing would hide much, as blood appears black both by moonlight and gaslight. Then he saunters away casually, laughing up his sleeve at the efforts of the police.'' 

''I see.'' Rhiannon was thinking furiously. ''Well, thank you, Lina. I had been wondering.'' 

''Glad to have been of service, my dear. Now, I shall see to my nap. I trust you will find something to do in my absence?'' 

Rhiannon nodded. As the peer left, she continued her train of thought. This Ripper must have been with prostitutes before, she concluded. How else would he know when his victim would be most vulnerable and unable to fend off his attack? Perhaps I can do something... but first, I must think!

Staring into the fireplace, Rhiannon thoughts swirled as she strove to come up with a plan. 

Five weeks passed without another murder. Both police and the population hoped that the Ripper had gone; either left London, died or been imprisoned. 

Lady Evangeline was not so sure. ''I do not know why he has not found another victim. Mistake me not, I am heartily glad another woman has not been murdered. Still, until I see his body with my own eyes, I will never be convinced that Jack is gone for good.'' 

Rhiannon looked up from her sewing. She was embroidering an Irish linen handkerchief with a pattern of roses and ivy. ''Perhaps the police are right. Maybe he was caught, imprisoned for another crime.'' 

''Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps!'' Lady Evangeline shook her head savagely; her hair, loosened from its pins, swirled around her shoulders, dark as spilled ink. ''No, my dear. I am afraid my feelings are correct; he is still out there, somewhere. Plotting ... planning... and I am no closer to the truth than I was at the beginning.'' 

Rhiannon nodded. She wore a dainty tea gown of white sprinkled with tiny silk forget-me-nots and trimmed in fine Brussels lace. A sprig of forget-me-nots and white roses, also silk, decorated the braids wound around her head in her old coronet hairstyle. 

''Well, I for one am glad you aren't rushing out at all hours of the night. I worry about you terribly.'' Rhiannon said. 

Lady Evangeline gave her an apologetic smile. ''My dear,'' she said, ''You need have no fear for me. Did I not vanquish the Whitechapel Ripper with my bare hands? Besides, I always carry a loaded revolver on my excursions.'' 

Rhiannon had decided, after much consideration, not to tell Lady Evangeline of her plan. Lina would insist on coming to protect me, the strawberry-blonde woman thought, and then it would all be for naught. The prostitutes Rhiannon had determined to consult were shy of authority. One look at Lady Evangeline doing her 'aristocratic' act and all bets would be decidedly off!

How to get away from the house was another story. Rhiannon knew she could not depend on Lina's infrequent - and mostly involuntary - naps; besides, if she left without saying something, no doubt Jackson, one of the footmen, or even the housemaid Buttercup would inform Lina immediately of Rhiannon's absence. 

It had taken her a little time to come up with a plausible excuse; even though she hated to lie, she knew that if her plan were to succeed, she would have to steel herself and make it convincing. ''Up, Lina?'' Rhiannon asked tentatively. 

''Hm?'' the peer replied lazily. A cigarette smouldered in her hand and her eyes were closed. 

''I need to go out this afternoon.'' 

Lady Evangeline opened her eyes and took a puff of her cigarette. ''Really? Where are we going?'' 

Now for the lie, Rhiannon thought. ''Well, actually, I need to go alone. It's ... well, it's something I have to do. By myself.'' 

''All by yourself, eh?'' Lady Evangeline's eyes glinted with suspicion and amusement. ''Perhaps you can share the nature of your mission.'' 

Rhiannon surreptitiously crossed the fingers of one hand behind her back. ''Cook told me it was Jackson's birthday tomorrow, so I want to go into town and get him a present.'' 

Lady Evangeline sat back and nearly smiled. Really, Rhiannon is a terrible liar! she thought. The peer knew good and well that Jackson's birthday was, ironically enough, December 25. However, her own birthday was tomorrow, a fact no doubt revealed to Rhiannon by one of the servants. Probably that busy-body, Cook.

She wants to surprise me with a present. Well, I shall let my dear little love have her fun, Lady Evangeline thought. And I shall remember to be suitably surprised when she gives me my present tomorrow!

''All right, my dear,'' Lady Evangeline said. ''You go right ahead. I am feeling quite lazy today, so I think I shall read a bit while you go on your shopping excursion. Will you be needing the carriage?'' 

''Oh, no,'' Rhiannon said brightly, ''I thought I would take a cab. Part of the adventure, you understand.'' 

Lady Evangeline was nearly moved to tears. She knew Rhiannon had little pocket money; after the peer's generosity regarding clothing and lodgings, Rhiannon had refused all but a nominal salary. The dear girl, Lady Evangeline thought, she wants to do it all herself. Well, I hope she has her grand adventure.

''Very well, my dear. You go right ahead and enjoy your afternoon. You will be back before dinner? Cook tends to become somewhat touchy when her roast is burned from being held too long.'' 

''Yes. I shan't be too long, and I'll certainly return before nine.'' Rhiannon suppressed a sigh of relief. The lie had passed for truth. 

 Now if her plan succeeded, she would be able to repay Lady Evangeline's kindness... and maybe - just maybe - it would be a big step in showing the raven-haired beauty just how much Rhiannon loved her. 

The thought that she might put herself in mortal danger never crossed her mind. 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Rhiannon knew that Lady Evangeline would know the date of Jackson's birthday; but she also knew that with the peer's birthday being tomorrow, Lina would suspect that Rhiannon wished to buy her a birthday present. Rhiannon was a terrible liar; the misdirection within the lie had taken her a long time to formulate. 

Later that afternoon, Rhiannon set out on her adventure. First, though, she stopped by Tiffany's to buy Lady Evangeline a real birthday present. 

Finally, after several hours of searching, aided by frantic salesmen, Rhiannon found the perfect gift. She was exhausted but triumphant. The time she had spent, rejecting piece after piece, had been worth it. 

It lay on her hand, nestled in a box of Tiffany's midnight blue hue. A cigarette case of brushed platinum, the front inlaid with a solid piece of pale green jade. The jade, too, was inlaid, but with diamonds and emeralds in an abstract, swirling pattern that was suggestive of a series of question marks. 

It was perfect. Rhiannon waited while the case was inscribed and the salesman wrapped the gift in paper tied with a silver ribbon. She payed the exorbitant amount with a small twinge. The golden guinea she had gotten from 'Jack' had come in handy, but the cost of the cab, coupled with the gift, had left her virtually penniless. She would have to walk to her next destination. Thrusting the small packet in her bodice, Rhiannon set out on her journey. 

The walk was considerable. It was after ten o'clock before a tired Rhiannon made it to the Whitechapel district. It took time, too, to locate Black Janet, her former mentor. 

She found the aging prostitute at the Whistling Pig, a seedy tavern with an atmosphere thick with smoke, the aroma of cheap gin and unwashed bodies, and an aura of hopelessness. As Rhiannon looked around, she couldn't help but think, There but for the grace of God go I.

Rhiannon wore her threadbare blue velvet dress, rescued from the rag pile and carefully cleaned, the hole in the shoulder darned. She had ducked into an alley and changed into it after leaving Tiffany's, leaving her beautiful wool gown stuffed down inside an empty barrel. The change had been necessary; Rhiannon knew it would not do to appear prosperous in Whitechapel. There were those desperate enough to cut a throat for a handful of coppers.

Black Janet, her horsehair wig askew, sat alone at a dirty table, staring into a glass of gin. As Rhiannon approached, the prostitute looked at her blearily, then a grin spread across her lined face. 

''Well, if it isn't Sugarbaby!'' Black Janet said enthusiastically. ''C'mere, love, give old Janet a hug.'' 

Rhiannon complied, mentally wincing at the smell of vomit and decay that emanated from the older woman. ''Janet, I need a favor,'' she said. 

''Sit down, sit down, my lovely and let me have a look at you. My, my, don't we look well fed! Found yourself a gentleman keeper, 'ave you?'' Black Janet said slyly, playfully poking Rhiannon in the ribs with a sharp elbow. ''Come up in the world some since last these old eyes seen you.'' 

Rhiannon nodded. She had already decided not to explain to Black Janet the circumstances of her departure from Whitechapel and subsequent change in station and lifestyle. ''Yes, I'm a kept woman now.''  In a manner of speaking, she added silently. But I wouldn't mind being ''kept'' by Lady Lina in the traditional sense!

''I knew it, I knew it. Ol' Black Janet knew you were too pretty for the profession. I've missed you, love, but I'm glad you found someone to take care of you. Now, tell me, Sugarbaby, are you doing back down here?'' 

''I need to find someone ...'' Quickly Rhiannon explained her need to the older woman, who nodded and furrowed her brow. 

''So, you're lookin' for a girl in the profession who had a gentleman caller, maybe a keeper, a few months back. And he looked like that.'' One wrinkled finger stabbed the artist's sketch Rhiannon had laid on the table. It was Lees' portrait of the Ripper. 

''Hmmm.'' Black Janet stroked her chin as she thought. ''I don't know, Sugarbaby, I just don't know. Most of these girls is too soused with gin to notice the ground moving under their feet, much less their gentleman's faces. Still,'' she added as Rhiannon's face fell, ''it can't 'urt to ask about, see if one of the girls might've seen him.'' 

Downing her glass of gin in a single, long swallow, Black Janet rose unsteadily to her feet. ''Come along, then, love. With all this Ripper business afoot, most of the girls is 'anging around together, mostly in pubs. We'll make the rounds, see what's what.'' 

Rhiannon nervously thought about the time. It was already half past eleven and she was more than two hours late getting home. Still, she thought, I left a note for Lina explaining the real reason I went out. Hopefully, she won't do something foolish, like call the police or descend on Whitechapel like an avenging Fury.

''All right, Janet,'' Rhiannon said firmly, standing up. ''Let's go.'' 

The two women walked for hours from tavern to tavern, pub to pub, showing the portrait and asking questions. None of the women they spoke to recognized the ''gentleman.'' Rhiannon began to wonder if her quest might turn out to be a fruitless one. 

At a pub called the Blind Boar, however, her luck changed. 

''I seen 'im,'' said a tiny woman with hennaed hair and an unpleasantly nasal voice. '''E was 'angin' about Dorset Street wiv' Mary Kelly, 'er what they calls Black Mary. She was roit 'ung up on 'im, too. Fought she'd found 'erself a keeper, 'er did.'' 

''Do you know where Mary lives?'' Rhiannon asked eagerly. 

The prostitute looked at her askance. '''Ere, now, what you wanna know 'at for?'' 

Another lie. ''The gentleman was keeping me, too,'' Rhiannon said. ''And the bastard up and disappeared on me. Left me nothing but the clothes on my back, a couple of farthings and a swollen belly for my trouble. He told me he loved me, that rotten sod. So I come down here to find him, give him a right royal piece of my mind. Maybe shame the bugger into giving me some money to pay for the brat.'' Rhiannon made her voice hard, her eyes angry. 

The nasal-voiced prostitute nodded approvingly. ''There ya go, luv. You 'as at the bleedin' sod! Wot a rotter, leavin' you like 'at, an' a baby on the way, too! Well, seein' as 'ow yer in the family way an' all, I'll tell ya Miss Mary Kelly lives in Millers Court. It's on the north side o' Dorset Street.'' 

Rhiannon thanked her profusely. The prostitute waved away Rhiannon's thanks, saying, ''I ain't got no 'ope you'll find 'im, luv. I ain't seed 'im around meself, not since Black Mary give 'im the shove. But good luck, anyhow.'' 

Rhiannon had to ask. ''Why did Mary put him off?'' 

The tiny prostitute shrugged. ''I 'eard it was onna counta 'is arstin' fer strange stuff an' the loike. Black Mary was roit squeamish 'bout the whole bloody thing. Said he wanted 'er to do stuff loike let the bloke touch 'er wiv' a knoife an' such. Roit shuddery feelin', 'er was.'' 

Black Janet sat at a table, staring owlishly at a glass of gin clutched in her hand. The older woman had been imbibing heavily during their search, insisting on raising a glass in every pub they'd visited. 

Rhiannon hurried over to her. ''Janet, I think I got the information I need. You don't need to come with me; I think I can finish this by myself.'' 

Black Janet roused herself from her trance. ''All right, love. You go right ahead. Ol' Janet'll stay right here an' keep the gin company. Good luck, Sugarbaby, and don't stay away from poor Janet so long next time.'' 

Rhiannon fiercely hugged the older woman. ''Thank you, Janet. I won't forget this.'' Determination filling her soul, Rhiannon went in search of Dorset Street and Mary Kelly. 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

It was after three o'clock in the morning before Rhiannon found Millers Court. Dorset Street, a narrow, shabby thoroughfare that ran parallel with the Spitalfields market, was deserted and silent as the grave. 

Rhiannon stood beneath the gaslights a moment, trying to get her bearings. She cautiously walked into the tiny entry of Millers Court, her feet making scarcely a sound on the cobblestones. She clutched a heavy shawl to her breast with both hands; this shawl was a far cry from the last one she had worn on these streets, but Rhiannon had considered warmth to be more important than appearance. 

It took only a minute to find Mary Kelly's house. The door hung ajar; within, a fire in the grate sent a faint glow through the filthy, fly-specked windows. Rhiannon could hear a voice murmuring, but it was too low for her to make out the words. 

Steeling herself, Rhiannon peered around the corner... then her turquoise blue eyes widened with horror. 

A wild cry of, ''Murder!'' pierced the silent night like a killer's blade. 

Lady Evangeline was beside herself. At ten o'clock, roused from involuntary slumber by a frantic Jackson, the raven-haired peer had found Rhiannon's note on the desk in her study. 

The note read: ''Dear Lina, I am sorry I lied to you. The truth is that I have gone out to Whitechapel hoping to find a prostitute who may have had Jack as a gentleman client; it is an idea I have had for some time. I have taken Mr. Lees' sketch and will be in the company of a friend named Black Janet. Please forgive me; I will return as soon as I can. Your friend, Rhiannon.'' 

The note crumpled involuntarily her fist. Lady Evangeline bellowed incoherently in rage. 

Immediately, Jackson and the two footmen burst into the room. They stopped, appalled by the look on the peer's beautiful face. 

Face engorged with blood, her eyes bulging from their sockets, cords standing out in her neck, Lady Evangeline was held in the grip of a fury that could not be denied. Every limb trembled as she fought for control, taking great gulps of air, lips bloodless and white. 

Finally, she managed to regain enough calm to croak, ''Jackson. Have Henry bring up the carriage.'' When the older man merely stared, stunned with astonishment and fear, she roared, ''MOVE!'' 

All three men jumped, turned and fled. 

Less than a quarter hour later, Lady Evangeline sat in the carriage as it rocketed through the cobblestoned streets, ignoring the inky hair that tumbled around her face. She was dressed in her men's costume of trousers and shirt, but in her haste had neglected to bring a coat or hat. The weight of a revolver made her trouser pocket bulge. 

Her green eyes were alternately incandescent with rage and dark with worry. If Rhiannon is injured on this fool's errand of hers, Lady Evangeline thought savagely, I shall kill her!

By eleven forty-seven, she had arrived at her destination, and leaped from the carriage before it had time to come to a complete stop. Up on the box, Henry's round face was lined with concern; Jackson had hastily told the coachmen what he knew of the facts, and all the servants both worried about Miss Rhiannon, although they confidently expected Lady Evangeline to take care of matters in her usual forthright manner. 

I 'opes the chit is alright, Henry thought, calming the sweating horses. 

Lady Evangeline sprinted to the front door of 221B Baker Street and, not bothering to stop, broke through the hinges with one strong shoulder and continued her headlong flight. I'll owe Holmes the cost of a new door, she thought, ignoring the sharp ache in her shoulder as she ran, but he must help me!

He is my only hope.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Holmes was awakened from his nap by a frantic tattoo pounded on his door. Hastily tying the belt of his paisley robe, the lean detective hurried to the door and threw it open, the revolver he had snatched from a side table ready in his hand. 

It was Lady Evangeline. 

Holmes exclaimed in surprise, ''My dear Lina! What on earth are you doing here in the middle of the night?'' 

Lady Evangeline pushed into the room without waiting for an invitation. Standing before Holmes, she fairly vibrated with tension. ''Rhiannon is missing.'' 

Holmes raised one eyebrow and closed the door. ''Missing?' he asked. ''Begin at the beginning, milady.'' 

''There is no time!'' The woman was frantic. 

Holmes held up a long-fingered hand. ''I cannot help you unless I know the facts. Speak quickly, then we will see what is to be done.'' 

Stumbling over her words, Lady Evangeline told the detective what she knew. As she spoke, Holmes studied her intently. Her face was ashen, save for two feverishly bright spots on each cheek. Those marvelously green eyes were waterlogged and bloodshot. With her jet-black hair in a tangled mess, misbuttoned shirt and trousers, she looked haggard and hag-ridden. It is as I have suspected, the great man thought. Lady Evangeline is in love with the lovely Rhiannon!

Finally, Lady Evangeline finished, ''Please, Holmes! I beg you! Help me find her before something dreadful happens!'' The peer wrung her hands together. She had never felt so helpless in her life; the combined weights of anxiety and a terrible certainty that Rhiannon was in danger had taken their toll. Lady Evangeline could not think; every fiber in her being shouted at her to act! 

Holmes said nothing; he grabbed a sheet of foolscap from his desk and scribbled a message. Folding it into an intricately cornered pattern, he weighted the packet with a shilling, then crossed to the window and flung it open. 

Below, in the pale gaslight, a ragged beggar child loitered across the street. 

Holmes whistled sharply and the boy's head popped up. The child jogged across the street to stand beneath the window. 

Holmes said loudly, ''You, there! Redcap Tom, aren't you?'' 

The boy nodded, snatching a worn cap from his filthy, tousled curls. Holmes flung down the paper; the boy caught it in one hand and stood there, staring up at the detective's face. 

''Take this message to Billy Budd,'' Holmes said. ''and keep the shilling for yourself. Make all haste, boy! Billy must receive this missive within the half hour!'' 

Redcap Tom nodded vigorously, his dirty face lightened with a grin. Clapping his hat back on his head, the child took off at a dead run and was soon swallowed up by the darkness. 

Closing the window, Holmes turned back to the agitated peer. ''I have summoned the Baker Street Irregulars. Most of them know the Whitechapel district like the backs of their hands; if Rhiannon is still there, they will find her and bring word to me.'' 

Lady Evangeline was still wringing her hands. ''Holmes! I cannot wait!'' 

''Instruct your driver to remain below with the carriage,'' Holmes said calmly. ''As soon as we have a location, we will drive like the Devil to Whitechapel.'' 

Lady Evangeline turned and headed to the door, eyes overflowing with tears, determined to go and keep looking, never stopping, until Rhiannon was safe. Holmes' strong hand on her shoulder stopped the lady in her tracks. 

''Lina. There is nothing more we can do,'' Holmes said emphatically. ''The Irregulars are far better suited to this work; they will find this Black Janet or Rhiannon as quickly as humanly possible. In the meantime, you must sit and rest, conserve your energy. No doubt it will be needed sorely before the night is out.'' 

Intellectually, Lady Evangeline acknowledged the truth of her mentor's words, but emotionally, she still thrummed with anxiety. ''It's just that I feel...'' Her voice trailed off as she realized that she could not explain her desperate need to find the other woman. 

''I understand.'' Holmes voice was gentle. ''Now, come. Sit down and I shall wake Mrs. Hudson for tea.'' The detective chuckled. ''If we can face Mrs. Hudson's wrath, then a runaway secretary and the machinations of the criminal class are as nothing.'' 

Lady Evangeline allowed herself to be steered to a chair. Although outwardly resigned, inwardly she still raged. If anything happens to her, she vowed grimly, men will shudder for centuries over Whitechapel's fate!

Holmes stared at his friend with hooded eyes, knowing her thoughts, and said nothing.

CHAPTER TWENTY

It was nearly two o'clock in the morning before a frantic knock sounded on Holmes' door. Lady Evangeline awakened with a snort, momentarily disoriented. She had fallen into an uneasy sleep and her dreams had been filled with vague forebodings. 

Rising, she observed Holmes engaged in whispered conversation with a tiny, cherubic child whose long curls were matted with filth. Finishing with an emphatic, ''Go!'' Holmes handed the child a coin that glinted with the sheen of gold and pushed him from the door gently but firmly. The child fled, guinea clutched in one grimy fist. 

Holmes turned back to the waiting peer. ''There is no sign yet of Rhiannon, although her movements have been traced as far as Spitalfields.'' Seeing Lady Evangeline's face crumple, Holmes added quickly, ''There is good news as well. Black Janet has been found, though much the worse for drink, at a pub called the Blind Boar.'' 

While Lady Evangeline stared, Holmes said with a slight smile, ''Well, hurry, woman! Get yourself together; we ride for Whitechapel at once!'' 

Despite the hour, an accident involving a carter's dray and several carriages full of inebriated peers left a tangled snarl of traffic. With every delay, Lady Evangeline's temper, already uncertain, became more ferocious. 

''What the Devil is the matter, Henry?!'' she shouted to the profusely apologizing coachman. ''Take another street or run them all down, I care not which!'' Sinking back into her seat, the enraged lady muttered savagely, ''Fools!'' 

Holmes smiled, secure in the darkness of the carriage's interior. ''Lina, you cannot cause horses to fly; even the Lord God Almighty stopped at dividing a sea.'' 

Lady Evangeline bit back a curse. As every moment passed, the fear that Rhiannon was in danger became more of a certainty. ''I shall go mad if anything happens to her. I know it, Holmes.'' 

The detective nodded. ''We will find her. Have faith, if not in yourself, then in me. I am not a modest man; you know me and you know my skills. My 'prey' has never eluded me; it shall not now.'' 

The dark-haired peer was silent. Back at Baker Street, she had taken advantage of the wait to comb her hair and twist it back into a single, inky braid that hung to her waist. The sleeves of her shirt were rolled back, exposing forearms corded with muscle. 

Rhiannon, she begged silently, please, please be all right!

At last, they found the pub. The Blind Boar was a small, rickety shack nestled in an alley between two tumbledown shops. It was nearly four o'clock in the morning, and Lady Evangeline was almost numb from nervous strain. 

Black Janet was located by the expedient of a handful of pound notes thrust into the grasping claw of the pub's bartender, a greasy harpy with a pock-marked face. 

Black Janet proved to be a wrinkled, gray-faced woman wearing a slipping horsehair wig. She was quite lost in drink; she merely sat and hummed an off-key melody while Holmes explained their mission. She appeared to be ignoring the detective and the raven-haired peer; in fact, she appeared to be oblivious of everything save the haze of cheap gin. 

Finally, Lady Evangeline could take no more. Grabbing the aged prostitute by the bodice of her dress, she hauled the other woman to her feet and exploded in rage, ''Tell me where she is! Or, by God, you will not live to see another night!'' 

Black Janet hung limply in the angry woman's hands. ''Alright, love. No need to get all in a dither. Ol' Janet'll tell ya where the Sugarbaby is.'' 

A little ashamed of her loss of control and feeling Holmes' disapproving gaze, Lady Evangeline lowered the prostitute back to her chair. ''Well, then,'' she said, swallowing her anger. ''In that case, you shall be well rewarded for the information.'' 

Black Janet cackled and adjusted her wig. ''Sugarbaby come lookin' for a gentleman, she did. Her found another girl 'oo told 'er as how Black Mary knew 'im.'' 

''And?'' Lady Evangeline wanted to scream in frustration but controlled herself with an effort. 

''An' Mary Kelly, 'er what's Black Mary, has a 'ouse over in Millers Court. 'At's off Dorset Street by the Spitalfields market. Sugarbaby allowed as how she was goin' over to 'ave a talk with Mary 'erself.'' 

''Thank you, Janet.'' The grateful peer pressed a sheaf of pound notes into the surprised prostitutes's hand. ''Bless you. Bless you!'' Lady Evangeline added fervently. 

Holmes squeezed Lady Evangeline's shoulder. ''It would be better if we walked. I believe I know the street she is referring to.'' 

The two left the pub, an odd pairing indeed -- a saturnine, older man with a face like a hawk's, and a tall, beautiful woman wearing trousers. Still, the occupants of the pub thought, stranger things have been seen in Whitechapel. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Rhiannon could see very little through the glaze of tears that flowed from her eyes. Her jaw ached where the man had struck her with his fist after her first, terrified scream. 

Now she lay in a corner, hands bound behind her back with a strip torn from her dress, ankles tied together with a piece of that same material. A gag had been forced into her mouth; Rhiannon resisted the urge to vomit, fearing she would choke to death. 

As it was, she could barely breath. She could only watch as the Ripper went about his bloody work. 

As horrifying as it was, Rhiannon could not tear her eyes away. She was grateful that her tears hid many of the details of what he was doing to Mary Kelly's body. 

The interior of the cramped, poorly lit room was liberally splashed with blood. Rhiannon could not recognize the 25-year-old victim's face; Jack had already been at work with his knife and had partially flayed the features. Now, he was busily removing his victim's breasts, soaked to the elbows in blood and body fluids. 

As he worked, Jack muttered in a sing-song voice, ''All the pretty whores ... all the pretty little whores ... get what they deserve in the end.'' 

It was almost five o'clock; Rhiannon had heard a church bell chime the half-hour. She was exhausted from trying to loosen her bonds; her wrists were chafed and bloody. She feared what the Ripper would do to her when he finished with Mary Kelly. 

Finally, having arranged his victim's viscera around the body in what he considered a pleasing enough pattern, Jack stood, bloody knife clenched in his hand. He considered a moment, then reached out and made a minute adjustment to the glistening liver that lay between Mary Kelly's feet. 

Then he turned, and his glittering eyes sought Rhiannon. 

''Noooooo,'' Rhiannon moaned through the gag, twisting frantically. He had shaved off the beard and muttonchops she had seen before, but a heavy mustache still bristled above his upper lip. 

He brought the knife up to his face and sensuously licked the blood from the razored steel. 

Rhiannon gagged, blue eyes wide with terror. 

He stepped over to her on light feet, obviously enjoying the woman's fear. ''All the pretty little whores,'' he chanted, then giggled. It was an unpleasantly high-pitched giggle and the hairs on the back of Rhiannon's neck stood up. 

''All the pretty little whores,'' Jack crooned as he knelt by Rhiannon's struggling body. Grabbing her ankles with one hand, he brandished the knife in the other. ''Get what they deserve ...'' 

Rhiannon screamed through the gag, the cords on her neck standing out in high relief. 

The knife raised higher. ''Pretty pretty whores ...'' 

Before he could strike, however, he was stopped by a commanding shout from the doorway. 

''Stop! Or I shall shoot!'' 

It was Lady Evangeline. She stood framed within the doorway, revolver steady in her fist. The peer was panting with exertion; upon reaching Dorset Street, she and Holmes had split up, the better to locate Millers Court. Somehow, Lady Evangeline had heard Rhiannon's muffled scream and raced like a madwoman to get there in time. 

Now she watched the tableau with narrowed eyes. ''Drop the knife and step away from her. NOW!'' 

Jack considered the gun-wielding woman a moment, then in a lightning move, grabbed Rhiannon and stood, holding her in front of him like a shield. His knife was poised across the strawberry-blonde woman's throat. 

Lady Evangeline gasped but did not lower the revolver. She hoped he would not call her bluff; she dared not take the risk of shooting Rhiannon. 

''So, another pretty whore come to the rescue, eh?'' Jack rasped. Rhiannon struggled a little, but stopped when the keen edge of the knife bit slightly into the white flesh of her throat, drawing a thin line of blood. 

''Let her go,'' Lady Evangeline said. Inwardly, she prayed Holmes would get there and size up the situation before acting; the detective was her only hope. 

''No, no, ol' Saucy Jacky can't do that, my fine dark bitch. But you put away your little toy gun and maybe Jack'll do her quick-like, so she don't suffer. Or maybe Jack'll leave her be. You never know.'' 

Rhiannon's eyes were as wide as saucers over the gag. She desperately wanted to tell Lady Evangeline to shoot; it did not matter if she were hit, too. She would rather die by Lina's bullet than at the hands of a madman. 

Lady Evangeline's shoulders slumped in defeat. She could not take the risk ... she lowered the revolver, tears tracing a silvery track down one cheek. To Rhiannon she mouthed silently, I'm sorry.

And Jack laughed, his whining giggle chilling both women to the bone. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Jack laughed and tightened his arm around Rhiannon's waist. He playfully ran the edge of the knife down the pretty woman's face and bodice, enjoying the feel of her body convulsing against his. 

Lady Evangeline had never felt so helpless, so hopeless in her entire life. Once she had felt that she stood on the cusp of great things; with Rhiannon by her side, there was literally nothing she could not do, especially in the light of the world-shaking passion she knew they could achieve together. If only...

Now the taste of defeat was as bitter as ashes in her mouth. 

She dared not shoot... but she dared not to shoot. A hellish paradox. 

If only...

Lady Evangeline finally acknowledged that she did, indeed, love Rhiannon, with all her heart and soul. I cannot imagine life without her, the peer thought. She means everything to me.

It was bitter indeed to realize that fate had given her an opportunity that she'd missed; if she'd gone back to Whitechapel after she'd first met Rhiannon, the two of them would have been blissfully together. Then she had been given a second, God-given chance at happiness... 

And now a third. 

If she failed Rhiannon this final time, there would be no more chances. The future stretched in front of her for a moment; a yawning abyss of loneliness and despair, regret and soul-destroying rue. 

Lady Evangeline's resolve hardened into adamantine. She would not fail Rhiannon again! Whipping up her arm, she fired without aiming ... trusting her heart to tell her hand where and when. 

Rhiannon's eyes closed as the booming thunder of gunfire filled her ears and a sharp blow against her breast drove the breath from her body. She slid into darkness, her final thought a regretful one. I wish I'd had the courage to tell her how I feel ... Lina, I love you! she thought desperately. 

Then she surrendered herself to swirling midnight. 

When Rhiannon awoke, she was cradled in warm, strong arms, her face wet with kisses and tears. Lady Evangeline's voice was saying brokenly, ''Oh, Rhiannon! I love you! I cannot live without you! Please, please, wake up!'' 

Rhiannon slowly opened her eyes. Evangeline gasped with relief and pulled the other woman to her even more tightly. ''Sweetheart!'' the lady gasped, ''I was so afraid you were...'' She did not finish the thought. Instead, she hugged Rhiannon to her and kissed her forehead fervently. 

Rhiannon shakily raised one hand and stroked Lady Evangeline's touseled black hair. ''I thought I was, too.'' Pulling herself from the peer's embrace, Rhiannon sat up. She was in her bed at home; a small bandage covered the scratch on her throat, both wrists wrapped in linen. There was an ache between her breasts that could only be a bruise; she wondered how she had escaped the killer's final, fatal blow ... then Lady Evangeline's words registered. 

Rhiannon cleared her throat. ''Wha... what were you just saying?'' she stuttered. Her turquoise blue eyes were serious, though her heart hammered in her chest. 

Lady Evangeline's mouth was dry. ''Um... nothing, it was nothing. I was so relieved that you were all right...'' 

Rhiannon held up on hand in an imperious gesture. ''So you mean to say that you do not love me?'' 

Lady Evangeline desperately cast about for something to say, a change of topic, something! At long last, she finally acknowledged to herself that this issue would have to be dealt with. She could not go on living a lie, pretending to feel only a friend's affection for Rhiannon when she felt so much more. 

Lady Evangeline squared her shoulder and steeled herself as if for a blow. Taking a deep breath, she took one of Rhiannon's small, fine boned hands between her own. ''Rhiannon...'' She paused and cleared her throat. ''Rhiannon,'' she began again, ''I do love you. Not just as a friend; my feelings for you are far stronger. I admit that I have entertained thoughts of you and I as... well, as lovers for some time. I have not acted upon those feelings because I...'' She stopped, not sure if she could explain her reasoning with Rhiannon's steady gaze upon her. 

Rhiannon said softly, ''You feared I could not return those feelings? And you were afraid of losing my friendship?'' 

As the astonished peer stared, gape-mouthed, Rhiannon slid closer to the other woman, so close she could feel Lady Evangeline's body heat through the thin nightgown she wore. 

''I understand, Lina. I was afraid of telling you how I felt, myself. But this morning, so close to death -- with my last thought I could do nothing but berate myself for never having told you how I feel. I love you, Lina. I want you more than anything or anyone else in the whole wide world. And, yes... I want us to be lovers, too.'' 

Lady Evangeline was beyond speech as Rhiannon took the peer's strong hands in her own small ones and placed them on her breasts, forcing Lina to cup them, feel their soft weight. Rhiannon stared into Lina's sea-green eyes. ''Please,'' she whispered softly. 

With a groan, Lady Evangeline leaned over and kissed Rhiannon's neck, careful of her wound. ''Are you sure?'' she whispered into Rhiannon's red-gold locks. 

''Quite sure,'' Rhiannon breathed. 

''There is something else you must know,'' the lady said. She searched Rhiannon's face. ''You do not remember, but you and I have met before...'' 

Lady Evangeline told Rhiannon the story of how she'd rescued her from an angry customer - and of how she'd forgotten about the beautiful young woman, dismissing her because of her lowly station. She felt deeply ashamed and half expected Rhiannon to strike her down, lacerate her with stinging whips of curses. Part of her would have welcomed that reaction. Another part cringed, fearful of losing the precious gift she'd been given. 

Instead, Rhiannon sat back calmly, though keeping the lady's hands trapped with her own. When the peer was finished, Rhiannon said, ''But that was before we knew each other, wasn't it?'' 

Dumbly, Lady Evangeline nodded. 

Rhiannon leaned forward and lightly kissed the lady on the mouth. ''You didn't fail me,'' she whispered. ''Not then, not now. I still love you, Lina. I'm just glad we got a second chance...'' 

''You forgive me?'' 

''There's nothing to forgive.'' Rhiannon raised a brow and smiled gently. ''I survived Whitechapel. Our coming together was only delayed, not lost forever. I'm just grateful that we met again. Believe me, Lina... I wouldn't care if you were the poorest rogue that ever sold matches for the rags on her back. I love you despite your station, despite your wealth and even - sometimes - despite yourself! You aren't the same person that you were before; for that matter, neither am I! We're both changed and changing. Instead of dwelling on the past, we should be forging our future.'' 

''Truer words were never spoken,'' Lady Evangeline replied. ''I treasure you, my dear. Now that I've found you at long last, I shall never let you go.'' 

''Good.'' Rhiannon snuggled closer. ''Now, will you stop feeling sorry for yourself and kiss me? I'm not the most patient woman in the world, you know.'' 

Evengeline gathered Rhiannon into her arms. ''I know...,'' she breathed. 

And there were no more words that afternoon. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

"Well, are you ever going to tell me what happened?'' Rhiannon asked around a mouthful of bread. 

The two women were comfortably ensconced in Rhiannon's bed, sharing a tray of bread, fruit and cheese. Neither one felt up to a heavy meal. 

Lady Evangeline ran one hand through her ink-black hair. Loose, it fell to her hips in waves and mingled with Rhiannon's own red-gold. 

''Yes, I suppose I had better, or no doubt you will nag me incessantly,'' the peer said with a chuckle. 

Rhiannon punched the other woman in the arm with one small fist. ''No, I'll just beat it out of you!'' she said playfully. 

Lady Evangeline put up her hands in mock terror. ''I surrender! I surrender! To thee, milady, I show the white feather and retire from the battlefield!'' 

Rhiannon growled and extended her hands like claws. 

Lady Evangeline surrendered with a laugh. ''Well, if you insist!  After I shot Jack, Holmes finally turned up. It seems he was delayed by a most insistent gentleman who made some rather shocking advances; in the end, poor Holmes was forced to strike him unconscious in order to get away.'' 

Both women giggled at the image of the formidable detective being pursued by an unstoppably lustful homosexual. 

Lady Evangeline continued, ''I wanted to get you out of there straightaway. I knew you had not been struck by the bullet, but you were unconscious and I... well, I was frantic with worry.'' She held up the jade and platinum cigarette case. ''This saved your life, you know. Thank God jade is such a hard stone! It protected you from Jack's final knife thrust, but for a moment, I was sure you were dead. And I wanted to die myself,'' she finished miserably. 

Rhiannon tsk-tsked and leaned against Lina's arm. ''Poor thing. You must have been beside yourself.'' 

''That is one way of putting it, yes. Then who should turn up but Mycroft Holmes himself! I nearly fell down in surprise; he never leaves the Diogenes Club, you know. It was like seeing the sun come out in the middle of the night. He brought with him a pack of bully boys who scooped up Jack's body with so much as a how-d'ye-do and left.'' 

''What did he want with the body?'' 

''I asked that of Sherlock. It seems that this 'Jack the Ripper' was known to Mycroft. In fact, he was a doctor, a homosexual who had been treating a certain ... hm, 'royal personage' for suspected syphilis. I'm sure you know who I mean.'' 

Rhiannon looked thoughtful and popped a grape into her mouth. ''You mean Prince Bertie?'' 

''The very one. This doctor had conceived an unnatural passion for the Heir; I suspect he was already insane, but his insanity was compounded by the frustration he must have felt in having to conceal the nature of his attraction from the Prince. Apparently, the doctor blamed prostitutes for Bertie's condition and wanted revenge. Holmes told me that Mycroft's investigation had revealed that the good doctor had been planning the murders for some time, even taking the trouble to do 'research' into the way prostitutes did 'business' in order to facilitate his mad scheme.'' 

Rhiannon nodded. ''That's what I thought,'' she said, ''when you told me that he strangled them as they were holding up their skirts. He must have frequented prostitutes in order to know the perfect moment when they would be the most vulnerable.'' 

Lady Evangeline hugged the other women. ''Well, sweetheart, please ... I am proud you thought of it, but the next time you have an idea, share it! My heart nearly stopped when I realized where you had gone.'' 

''I promise, Lina.'' She laid a slab of creamy white cheese on a piece of bread and bit down. Chewing thoughtfully, Rhiannon murmured, ''So now what?'' 

Lady Evangeline sighed. ''Since the doctor enjoyed royal patronage, Mycroft feels that the entire story would be far to scandalous to reveal. The doctor's body will, no doubt, be discovered in time, or perhaps he will simply disappear. As for the murders, they will stop, of course, and the truth will never be known. Who knows what the people will think?'' 

''I think they will wonder about the killer, Lina. I think they will always wonder who he was and why he did those terrible things.'' 

Lady Evangeline leaned down and kissed Rhiannon on the lips softly. ''Let them wonder, my dear,'' she purred. ''You and I have more important considerations.'' 

The tray of food tumbled from the bed as the two women embraced. 

Apart, they were incomplete... 

Together, there was nothing they could not accomplish. 

Fate had, indeed, been more than kind.

And in a lonely flat in Baker Street, a man smiled ruefully as the strains of a violin sonata wafted out into the fog-bound night. 

EPILOGUE

I'm not an alien maniac, 
Nor yet a foreign tripper; 
I'm just your jolly, lively friend, 
Yours truly, Jack the Ripper. 
--An anonymous verse written in red ink on a postcard and received by a newspaper
in 1888, attributed to Jack the Ripper

The Author wishes to acknowledge the invaluable research materials on Jack the Ripper from: The Mammoth Book of Murder, edited by Richard Glyn Jones (Carroll & Graf Publishers, Inc., 1990); Solved and Unsolved, Classic True Murder Cases, edited by Richard Glyn Jones (Random House, 1991); and finally, a truly spectacular Ripper web site at http://ripper.wildnet.co.uk/ripintro.htm where I was able to find a copy of the coroner's report on the Ripper's final victim, Mary Jane Kelly, as well as copies of the 'Ripper' letters found within the story.

Scholars are still engaged in furious debate as to whether or not the killer who terrorized the Whitechapel district murdered other victims or not; the five victims in this story are the ones which most agree were definitely the work of one man who called himself Jack the Ripper. Other characters in this story, including police detectives, doctors and the clairvoyant, Robert James Lee, were involved in the case; however, any descriptions, conversations and attitudes are the work of my imagination.

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PROLOGUE

Farthest from him is best
Whom reason hath equalled, force hath made supreme
Above his equals.
Farewell happy fields 
Where joy for ever dwells; 
Hail horror, hail Infernal world, and thou profoundest Hell 
Receive thy new possessor; one who brings 
A mind not to be changed by place or time.
The mind is its own place, and in its self 
Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n. 
-----Milton, Paradise Lost  

 CHAPTER ONE

LONDON
DECEMBER 25, 1888

Lady Evangeline St. Claire stretched luxuriously. A tall, hard muscled, ebony-haired and aristocratic beauty, she had foregone her usual household attire of battered men's trousers and a comfortable cotton shirt. 

Instead, out of deference to the holiday, she wore a combing gown whose overlay of ivory lace allowed the forest green silk beneath to peep through; the sleeves were cut close to the elbow, then flared to cuffed fullness at the wrist. 

The color made her sea-green eyes seem as dark as the magnificent square-cut emeralds that dangled nearly to her shoulders from the gold hoops that pierced her ears. Her midnight black hair was loose, however, flowing to her hips like a river of spilled ink, and her slender feet, tucked beneath her on the sofa, were hoydenishly bare. 

She plucked a cigarette from her lips and blew a smoke ring with theatrical flair. 

"Open the next one, my dear," Lina commanded her companion with an indulgent smile. 

The rustle of wrapping paper being torn open by excited fingers was followed immediately by a squeal. "Oh! Lina! You shouldn't have!" The voice belonged to her secretary, housemate and lover of nearly three months, Rhiannon Moore. 

Rhiannon was a petite, very pretty strawberry blonde, with a voluptuously plump figure and pale blue eyes the shade of fine Tibetan turquoise. Since the terrible affair of the Whitechapel Ripper - in which she nearly lost her own life twice - Rhiannon had lived with Lady Evangeline, who had gone from protector and mentor, to partner and lover, with a swiftness that still took her breath away. 

Christmas had never been a happy time for Rhiannon; even before her mother's death and father's tragic suicide, the family had never been able to afford lavish gifts. Her father's tutor status in wealthy households was an awkward one; neither servant nor family, they had not been treated as equals by either. Presents had been few and far between. 

After Henry Moore's death, Rhiannon had taken to prostitution to survive; penniless and deeply ashamed of her low state, she had seen no real reason to celebrate Christ's birth. 

Lady Evangeline had suspected something of the sort. With her usual unhesitating flair for command, the beautiful peer had schemed to make this holiday a Christmas her lover would never forget. 

Although not one for celebrations, Lina had ordered the entire house transformed into a Yule-tide delight, and had taken great joy in Rhiannon's astonishment and child-like appreciation. 

The servants had worked like madmen for a month in preparation. The entire house in Grosvenor Square had been decorated with acres of holly, mistletoe and ribbon-wrapped ivy. In the front hall, a huge Yule tree had been set up; nearly twenty-five feet tall, its ornaments of German and Venetian glass, pressed tin, gilt stars and wooden soldiers, glittering crystal snowflakes and red-cheeked St. Nicholas', gleamed in the softly hissing gaslight like an Eastern treasure. 

And presents! Lady Evangeline had feverishly purchased whatever she believed Rhiannon might fancy. Money was literally no object to the wealthy peer; and nothing, in her opinion, was too good for the strawberry-blonde woman she loved more than life itself. 

Rhiannon gasped again as she lifted a length of shimmering fur from its heavy box. "Is this... ermine?," she asked breathlessly. Her eyes shone and she ran a trembling hand across the ice-white fur's softness. 

"Of course, my dear. Sable is far too common, as is mink; fox was out of the question - I feared it would clash with your hair. I thought ermine might suit you admirably." Lina smiled at Rhiannon's expression. If she believes this is the cream, the peer thought with an inward chuckle, my poor sweetheart has not yet begun to discover the depths!

Rhiannon gaped at the swirl of ermine that foamed across her lap. "A stole? Oh, Lina! This is too much!" 

"Not at all, my dear, not at all. Believe me when I say you are worthy of all the treasures of lost Egypt, and your humble servant would lay them at your feet herself if she were able." The ebony-haired peer gently took Rhiannon's hand and brought it to her lips like a gallant courtier of old. 

Rhiannon flushed. "Really, Lina..." She hesitated. "This stole, the bracelet," - she indicated the flashing length of sapphires that encircled one slim wrist, "the opera glasses... even that clever writing desk! You must have spent a fortune!" She did not, however, withdraw her hand from the peer's grasp. 

Lina reached her free hand to the table beside her and picked up a glass of champagne. "And the best is yet to come, my dear!," she said, kissing Rhiannon's hand again, releasing it, then taking a sip of sparkling French champagne. 

"Now, there is one more box which I insist you open this instant," the peer continued, "and then I will open mine." 

Hesitantly, Rhiannon laid the incredible stole aside and reached for the gaily wrapped package handed to her by a grinning Lina. It was somewhat flat and rectangular, but not heavy. Tearing off the paper, an ornately carved sandalwood box was revealed. Lifting it to her nose, Rhiannon inhaled deeply, reveling in the exotic scent. 

"Mmmm," she said, "Delicious! Thank you. I think I'll keep my jewelry in it..." 

Lina interrupted. "Before you think of uses for that box, Rhiannon, I suggest you open it." Her green eyes twinkled. 

Carefully, Rhiannon opened the lid. Nestled inside the crimson velvet interior was a heavy envelope of cream vellum. 

Wielding the silver letter opener handed to her by the smug Lina, Rhiannon carefully slit the envelope and withdrew a pair of tickets... and a hand-written itinerary. 

"Oh!" Rhiannon's pale blue eyes flew open. "We're going to Cairo!" 

Rhiannon threw herself into the laughing peer's arms, and, to her horror, immediately burst into tears. 

Lina was nearly as distraught. "My dear, whatever is the matter?," she asked, concerned. "If a Cook's tour of the Nile is not to your liking, I can certainly change the plans..." 

Rhiannon lifted her tear stained face and interrupted, "You will not! I want to go to Cairo with you," she said fiercely, "I would go anywhere with you! I'm just..." Her voice trailed off as she hiccuped. 

Lina stroked her back with soothing fingers. "Shhh, sweetheart," she crooned, "It is quite all right. If you insist, we shall certainly go to Cairo in the fall. Please, my dear," she pleaded, "do not cry. I only wanted to make you happy." 

With a final hiccup, Rhiannon withdrew herself from the taller woman's embrace. "I'm fine, truly. And I am happy." She gave Lady Evangeline a slight smile. "I've never been happier." She wiped her wet face with the back of one hand and sniffled. 

"Well then," the dark-haired peer said with relief, "I am heartily glad to hear that!" Lina held out a linen handkerchief; Rhiannon took it and wished for the thousandth time that she were not so prone to tears. 

Poor Lina, Rhiannon thought, she must certainly think I'm an hysteric!

Lady Evangeline looked at Rhiannon with appreciation, and felt a familiar tingling itch between her thighs. The strawberry-blonde woman wore a worsted wool morning gown of thick navy and white stripes, whose long sleeves boasted a waterfall cascade of tiered Irish lace. Unlike the barefoot Lina, Rhiannon wore white slippers with ribbons that criss-crossed her ankles and tied in a pretty bow. She looked fresh and young as a schoolgirl, particularly with the pair of juvenile braids that hung over each shoulder. 

"My dear," Lina purred, her green eyes dark, "have I told you lately that you are more beautiful than Helen of Troy? More lovely than a summer's day? More desirable than life or breath?" 

"Only last night," Rhiannon replied pertly. Her turquoise-blue eyes gleamed with mischief. 

"Then I have been remiss," Lina said, raising one brow. "You must remind me, my dear, to tell you more often how beautiful you are. Preferably every quarter-hour or so." 

"Shall I make a note of it in your social schedule, milady?" 

"Do," Lina breathed. She had drawn closer to the other woman until they were separated only by the length of ermine that lay on the sofa between them. 

Her lips met Rhiannon's in a soft kiss. The other woman whimpered a little, then shifted her body until it met her lover's. Rhiannon twined her arms around the peer's neck and ran her fingers through Lina's soft ebony hair. Desire made Rhiannon tremble; when the lady softly moaned into her mouth, Rhiannon nearly fainted with pleasure... 

Suddenly, the doorbell rang. 

The two women sprang apart. "DAMN!," Lady Evangeline roared, then immediately exercised her formidable self control when Rhiannon raised a mockingly disapproving brow. "I beg your pardon, my dear," the lady said contritely. "I had forgotten there was a lady present." 

Rhiannon giggled. As a former streetwalker, she had been exposed to much worse language and it tickled her that the aristocratic peer insisted on treating the secretary as if she had never been exposed to life's more sordid side. 

Running impatient fingers through her ink-dark hair, Lina rose. "Wait right there, my dear," she said, bending over to kiss the side of Rhiannon's neck. "Do not move a muscle. I shall deal with whomever has the temerity to interrupt our holiday, and I shall return forthwith... With my shield or on it." Her green eyes sparkled with good-humored mischief. 

Lady Evangeline left the study, ruffled skirts trailing behind her. Rhiannon reached over and crushed out the cigarette the peer had left burning in the crystal ashtray on the side table. 

After waiting impatiently for a quarter-hour, picking at her skirts and sipping lukewarm champagne, Rhiannon heard Lina returning. The pretty younger woman immediately perked up and smoothed her hair, biting her lips and surreptitiously pinching her cheeks to make them redder. 

She adjusted her bodice with quick fingers, making more of her magnificent breasts visible. It's about time, she thought, her mind already awhirl with plans for a Christmas feast... with the unsuspecting peer as the main course. 

In a moment, however, Rhiannon realized that Lady Evangeline was not alone. The peer was speaking to someone; as she reached the study door, Rhiannon realized, from the voice she heard murmuring a response to Lina's question, that this visitor must be a man. 

"...quite all right," Lina was saying, "We are celebrating the season all alone today; the servants have been given a holiday as well. I assure you, Mr. Katchurian, you do not discommode us in the slightest." 

Who could this be?, Rhiannon thought, somewhat disgruntled. And why on earth is Lina inviting him in? Curling her lip, she pulled her bodice back up with a tug, not caring if the delicate lace was rent. 

Well, so much for my plans for the afternoon, Rhiannon said to herself, then sat up into a more proper position on the sofa as their visitor walked into the study on Lady Evangeline's heels. 

CHAPTER TWO

"Ah!" said Lady Evangeline, sweeping into the study. "Rhiannon, my dear, allow me to present Mr. Andre Katchurian, proprietor of Katchurian's Antiquities in Threadneedle Street. Mr. Katchurian, my secretary and dear friend, Rhiannon Moore." 

The gentleman swept Rhiannon a bow. He was a short, plump man with pudgy hands and a handlebar mustache that hung limply on either side of his baby-soft mouth. His hair was as dark as his eyes, and he was dressed conservatively in a gentleman's morning costume of charcoal-gray pinstriped suit, vest, and dove-gray silk tie. His greatcoat and scarf, so necessary to the wintry season, had been left in the foyer. 

A gold pocketwatch's chain glittered across his ample stomach, and the dangling fob was fashioned to resemble a tiny, elaborately enameled snuff box. He looked quite the dandy, and stood somewhat ill-at-ease, twisting his amber-headed cane between his gloved hands. 

"Miss Rhiannon," he said, acknowledging Rhiannon's gesture of welcome. He rolled his "rrrr's" in a faintly Germanic fashion. 

Rhiannon did not recognize his accent; no doubt Lina, with her superior knowledge of the world, had not only pinpointed his country of origin, but had also, by this time, ascertained what he had for breakfast that morning, whether or not he read the Times or the Daily Mirror, and that he belonged to the East Indian Headhunter's Club and owned a Pekinese who had recently been wormed. 

Rhiannon sighed; in many ways, Lady Evangeline was remarkably similar in her thought processes to her mentor, the great "consulting detective," Mr. Sherlock Holmes. 

At Lady Evangeline's invitation, Katchurian plopped himself down in an overstuffed chair. Leaning his cane against the side of the chair, he began to worry his hat, turning it around and around in his hands, the brim slowly being crushed beneath his fingers. 

"Please, Mr. Katchurian. If you would begin your extraordinary story at the beginning so that Rhiannon might take notes," the peer said, crossing to the sofa and sitting next to the astonished strawberry-blonde woman. 

Rhiannon said nothing; she knew that Lady Evangeline would hardly have interrupted their afternoon together unless the cause was an important one. So, without argument, she reached into her pocket for the mother-of-pearl traveling notebook and tiny automatic pencil made of silver that the peer had given her for "field studies." 

"Er-hem!" Katchurian cleared his throat with an apologetic glance at the two ladies. "It is just as I have told you, milady. I am a dealer of antiques, Miss Rhiannon," he said, turning to speak directly to the furiously writing secretary, "and as such, I often deal with the peerage. Those members who have money needs, ja? They bring me their family heirlooms and I sell them; discreetly, of course.'' 

At Rhiannon's understanding nod, Katchurian continued. "I am Swiss and for some years I have lived in this country, doing business. Always I am discreet. My clients are many and my reputation good. But now I have troubles... I  have come here because a policeman I consulted, Inspector Dorset, told me of Lady Evangeline's reputation and assured me she could help. So'', he concluded, spreading his hands, his much abused hat now balanced on one knee, "I listen and I here I am." 

Lina began to pour herself another glass of champagne. Realizing the bottle was warm, she gave it a disdainful look and murmured to Rhiannon, "I will be back in a moment." 

The ebony haired peer rose. "Mr. Katchurian, perhaps you will be good enough to continue your explanation of the matter that is troubling you while I bring us all some tea." 

Katchurian nodded, "Ja, ja," he said, "I am sure the lovely young lady will keep me good company while you are gone." As Lady Evangeline left the room, the antiques dealer turned back to Rhiannon, who waited, pencil poised. 

Running a gloved hand through his thinning hair, Katchurian said, "I have a customer who is, shall I say, very needful of my services. He brings me many good, wonderful things all of the time. I don't ask how he comes to have them, you understand. But I am an honorable man; I do not deal with thieves. Anyway, he brought me something special. A gold box and a deck of cards.'' 

"A deck of cards?" Rhiannon asked, puzzled. Surely no deck, no matter how old, could be worth much. The gold box, on the other hand... 

Katchurian grinned, showing tobacco stained teeth. "Ja, you think it is only the box I am interested in. But the cards... they are the true treasure.'' 

Katchurian went on to explain that the cards were made of thin sheets of shaved ivory; seventy-eight in all, and each one hand- painted by the infamous Venetian artist of the 15th century, Josephus San Giacomo. They were considered the first set of what would become known as Tarot cards, made famous by the wandering Romany tribes, who used them for fortune-telling. 

This set, known as the Madman's Tarot, was well known and its reputation dire. It had passed from hand to hand, leaving a trail of uncanny destruction in its wake, and had finally been lost in 1712 when the self-styled magician, Pietro Nostromo, committed suicide by setting himself on fire. Some believed Pietro used the Madman's Tarot to summon Lucifer himself and had been incinerated for his pains. The cards were considered cursed; yet that did not stop occult collectors from seeking them as if they were some demonic Holy Grail. 

"You see, Miss Rhiannon, I had a client who wished to purchase the cards and the box. He offered a fortune and I could not say no. So, I sold them to him.'' 

At this point, Lady Evangeline came back into the room, carrying a Georgian silver tray loaded with tea things and a plate of crustless sandwiches. "Here we are. Rhiannon, my dear, do keep writing, and Mr. Katchurian, kindly continue your story. I believe I still remember how to pour." 

Katchurian accepted a fragile, eggshell porcelain cup of steaming peppermint tea from the peer and sipped delicately. Then he resumed his story, "Two days after I sold the Tarot, another gentleman came to see me; he said he was interested in purchasing the box and its contents. I told him it had already been sold.'' Katchurian  put down his teacup and saucer, spreading his hands wide. "What else could I do?" 

The upshot of Katchurian's story was that the mysterious gentleman, who had given the antiques dealer the name of Lord Julian Baxter, had insisted upon knowing to whom the precious antiquity had been sold. Katchurian, with the understanding that Lord Baxter intended to make the buyer an offer, had given the gentleman the information he needed. Tipping his top hat in thanks, Baxter had left the shop and matters ran as usual for several days. 

"Then, Lord Baxter came back. He was very angry and told me that I was a liar and a cheat. He was like a madman! I protested; he shouted and threatened me. Then he smashed up my shop! I could not stop him; he was insane with rage, ja? He told me if I did not tell him the truth, he would send the Peacock Prince to kill me!'' 

Katchurian pulled an immaculate linen handkerchief from his breast pocked and dabbed at his forehead. "I... I begged that schveinhund for my life. When he left, I of course called the police. They told me that Lord Julian Baxter was an old gentleman who died years ago! I gave them a description of the madman but they weren't very hopeful. One Inspector told me privately to come to Lady Evangeline.'' Katchurian spread his gloved hands apart again. "I am sorry to interrupt your holiday, but I am afraid of this man. Who knows what he will do? Maybe set fire to my shop next, ja?'' 

Lady Evangeline took a gulp of her cooled tea. "Your story is a strange one, Mr. Katchurian, but intriguing. Tell me, can you describe the gentleman's features enough to allow Rhiannon to make a sketch? And if you will be kind enough to provide me, as you did the mysterious 'Lord Baxter', with the Tarot buyer's name and address, I shall promise to do the best I can to get to the bottom of this matter." 

For the next twenty minutes, Katchurian and Rhiannon worked on the sketch; the pretty red-blonde secretary had discovered an artistic talent she had never realized she'd possessed, and at Lina's insistence, had begun taking drawing lessons. In the end, the pencil sketch was complete; Katchurian swore it was an excellent license of 'Lord Baxter.' 

"Excellent!," Lady Evangeline crowed in satisfaction. "As to the matter of your personal safety, Mr. Katchurian, perhaps you should hire a bodyguard." When the antiques dealer protested, she held up her hands. "I can recommend no man better than Mr. William M'Peace; he is a retired boxer yet his manners are pretty enough to satisfy even the most delicate sensibilities. We are old friends, he and I; if I give you a letter of introduction, he will most certainly be willing to take you on." 

Katchurian nodded but he was still unconvinced. "Still...," he began, but broke off when Lady Evangeline smiled. 

"Rest assured, Mr. Katchurian, M'Peace may not appear so, but he has the manners of a gentleman born. And he will most certainly see to it that neither you nor your shop come to any harm until I can investigate this matter." 

"Very well," Katchurian replied. He stood, picking up his cane and clapping his battered hat upon his head. "Tomorrow, I will send you the buyer's name and address, as well as my manifest for the box. You will perhaps find the description and history helpful, ja?'' 

"Of course. I shall have that letter of introduction waiting for your messenger in the morning." 

"Then, ladies, I will take my leave. My apologies again for disturbing you; good day and thank you for your time," Katchurian said, tipping his hat politely. Lady Evangeline herself saw the Swiss dealer to the door; returning, she looked at Rhiannon with undisguised delight. 

Clapping her hands together, the peer danced around the study, giddy as a schoolgirl. "Wonderful! Just wonderful!," she crowed. 

Rhiannon laughed. Lina was a never ending source of surprise for the secretary; she felt that there were depths to the woman she loved that she would never plumb. God help me!, Rhiannon thought, I'll never tire of her. Not if I live to be a hundred.

Lady Evangeline snatched at Rhiannon's hands and pulled her from sofa, then swirled her dizzily around the study in a wild waltz of triumph. "Oh, my dear!," Lina said, her beautiful face wreathed in an enormous smile, "Cursed Tarot cards, mysterious strangers and a possible murderer! What a wonderful Christmas present!" 

Although she laughed at Lina's obvious delight, a feeling of foreboding welled up from the pit of her stomach. Rhiannon felt that this case would prove to be neither as simple, or as entertaining, as her lover believed. 

The pretty secretary firmed her resolve. I will let nothing happen to Lina!, she vowed. Nothing! and she tightened her arms around the startled peer's neck in a stranglehold, while Lina giggled and led her in another turn around the study, both women dancing to music only they could hear. 

CHAPTER THREE

The next morning, Rhiannon nervously smoothed the front of her brand new Liberty silk gown. The unstructured Wedgwood blue-and-cream dress, with its high Empire waistline and pretty lace collar and cuffs, suited her well. 

"Oh, do stop fussing, my dear. Believe me, Holmes will hardly notice what you are wearing - he never follows ladies' fashions." 

Lady Evangeline rapped briskly on the door of 221B Baker Street, remembering with a rueful smile what had happened the last time she had found herself at Holmes' door. 

Believing the then-missing Rhiannon to be in hideous danger (and, as it later proved, she was), Lina - who was extremely well developed physically and as tall as most men - had battered down the door by main force rather than wait for Mrs. Hudson to answer. 

Then, she had been dressed in her men's costume - stripped for action, as it were. This morning, the beautiful raven-haired lady was dressed far more conventionally in her own Liberty silk gown of Nile green and white. 

Upon being admitted by a jovial Mrs. Hudson (who had apparently forgiven the contrite peer for the destruction of her front door), both women walked upstairs to the flat Holmes shared with his roommate and friend, Dr. John Watson. 

Holmes, of course, was delighted to see them both. "Ladies!" he said expansively with a wide smile that would have shaken the phlegmatic Watson, "Do come in! Ah, I see you, too, have taken to rational dress! I must say, it suits you exquisitely." 

Rhiannon gave Lina a look. "I thought you said he wouldn't notice," she murmured under her breath. 

Lady Evangeline grimaced. "I swear, my dear, he does it just to provoke me!" 

Drinking Mrs. Hudson's excellent rum punch, the three exchanged news, gossip and Christmas presents. Holmes gave Lina a custom-bound set of his monographs - which made the peer squeal in ecstasy; and to the strawberry-blonde Rhiannon, the detective presented a tiny, mother-of-pearl pistol, complete with a box of miniature bullets. 

"It might not appear formidable," Holmes said gravely to the surprised secretary, "but I assure you that aimed properly, this toy can prove to be quite deadly. I suggest you ask Lina for lessons; I'm sure she will prove to be an excellent tutor in firearms." 

"My word, Holmes!," Lina said with a smile. "What next? Will you be presenting my Rhiannon with an express rifle and sending her after criminally inclined elephants?" 

Holmes let out a bark of laughter. "Somehow, I cannot see Rhiannon as a Great White Hunter, ala the famed Colonel Moran. Ah, my dear Lady Lina... can you tell me, does your secretary have a sister as pretty and intelligent as herself? I have lately begun to consider rescinding my bachelorhood - but only if the lady were as accomplished as your Rhiannon." His gray eyes sparkled with humor and mischief. 

Overwhelmed by all this attention, Rhiannon blushed; then blushed more hotly when she realized that Holmes must know about her relationship with the beauteous Lady Evangeline. At the house in Grosvenor Square, all of the servants knew, of course; one could hardly hide anything of importance from those who lived "belowstairs." However, she hadn't minded that; it was the thought of what Holmes might think of the situation that mortified her. She cringed slightly, awaiting censure, ridicule... or cold silence - she did not know which would be worse. 

Uncannily, the lean, saturnine detective seemed to read her mind. "It's quite all right, Miss Rhiannon," he said, leaning forward to pat her hand. "I have known Lady Lina for years, and I can say that I am truly happy for you both. However," he continued, turning to the smiling peer, "I caution you to conceal the true nature of your feelings for one another from Watson. He is, alas, somewhat conventional; one might even say provincial, in his beliefs, and I would not wish him scandalized to the point of apoplexy." 

"Hmph," Lina grunted. "Have no fear, Holmes. Although there is little love lost between John Watson and myself, I would hardly endanger your friendship with the man... even if he is pig-stubborn and blind as a cave-dweller." 

"Now, now," the detective chided, "You know that the majority of British subjects would condemn you both if they knew of your true relationship. Never mind that such things are far more prevalent then the ordinary banker, reading his Sunday Times over kidneys and eggs, might expect or even believe." 

"True, Holmes." Lina sighed. "Nevertheless, I urge you not to make this matter common gossip. God knows I have no great love for my fellows, but I will not see Rhiannon hurt." She clenched her fists as if prepared to fight for Rhiannon's honor. 

Holmes sipped his punch. "I shall be the soul of discretion, my word upon it." Then he grinned suddenly, and Rhiannon was struck by how young this expression made the ordinarily world-weary detective seem. "Now, ladies... Where are my presents?" 

The tension broken, both women laughed. From Lady Evangeline, Holmes received a portable chemistry kit, packaged in a cunning silver-chased box small enough to slip into a trouser pocked. "For testing bloodstains and such at the scene," the peer explained. 

"I see." Holmes appeared delighted, and nothing would do but to prick the peer's finger on the spot and try out his new "toy." 

Next, the detective opened Rhiannon's gift. Inside a wooden box was a new pipe, the bowl carved of ivory into the shape of an open-mouthed Holmes himself. The detective exclaimed in surprise, "My word! Rhiannon, how on earth..." 

The red-blonde secretary smiled, eyes glittering with glee. "I found an old toymaker living in Cheapside. Ever since Dr. Watson's stories appeared in The Strand, your profile has been immortalized in print, Mr. Holmes. It wasn't that difficult to convince him to carve the pipe in your likeness." 

The detective smiled. "I shall treasure it always, my dear Miss Rhiannon," he said simply. "Now then, since I expect you did not come all this way merely to dazzle me with largesse, Lady Lina, perhaps you will be good enough to explain the other reason for your visit." 

Lady Evangeline's lips stretched into a smile. "My dearest friend," she said, "I have come upon a little matter which requires your assistance." 

Quickly, the peer explained about the antiques dealer Katchurian and the mysterious gentleman, stopping only long enough to allow a bustling Mrs. Hudson to enter and serve the three a hearty tea, complete with sandwiches, scones and small iced cakes. 

"Hmmm," Holmes murmured. He had leaned back in his chair, and, eyes slitted, stretched his long legs in front of him. "Katchurian... Yes, I believe I know of him, although I have yet to make the gentleman's acquaintance. But... you said you have a sketch of the false Baxter?" 

Rhiannon pulled the sketch from her reticule with a flourish. "Right here," she said, and handed the paper to the semi-recumbent detective. She held a small plate of sandwiches in her other hand; she might have been petite, but Rhiannon daily consumed enough food to put a stevedore to shame. 

Holmes studied it in silence for a moment. "Milady, would you mind handing me volume 'C' of my reference?" 

Going across the room, the peer pulled down a somewhat ratty looking file, stuffed with miscellaneous papers, from a nearby crowded shelf. Handing it to the detective, she sat back down and absently captured Rhiannon's free hand with her own. 

Holmes, whose dark gray eyes noticed everything, hid a smile. Thumbing through the reference he himself had created, composed solely of articles and information on those subjects he found of interest, the detective soon came across an entry that sparked his memory. 

"Just as I suspected. Ladies, meet Mr. Benjamin Culverton; an alias used by Lord James Escott, youngest son of His Grace William, Duke of Waring. It appears that young Sir James is a relatively high- ranking member of the notorious Hellfire Club." 

Lina wrinkled her brows together. "The Hellfire Club, Holmes? I thought that went out of fashion after King Charles' Star Chamber!" 

"True. However, there has recently been a resurgence in interest in that old black magic cult. Some of the wilder sons of the peerage have been observed participating in their dubious activities; it is rumored that membership in the Club grows stronger on a daily basis." 

"Hmph. In this day and age, too. Well, spiritualism is all the rage, I suppose; one understands it is quite fashionable at dinner parties to turn down the gaslight and hold seances." 

Rhiannon was puzzled. "What exactly is the Hellfire Club?," she asked. Although her father had seen to her education, some subjects he had considered far too indelicate to bring up to an impressionable female child. 

Lina squeezed her lover's hand gently. "My dear," she replied, "The Hellfire Club was notorious during the reign of King Charles the First. They practiced occult rituals, held Black Sabbaths and, it is rumored, even resorted to human sacrifices. Many of their members were peers; it disturbs me greatly to think that such things might be occuring in this rational age." 

"It disturbs Mycroft as well," Holmes said. "Two of the modern Hellfire Club's members are directly connected to the Royal family by blood; another by marriage. The possibility of scandal makes my brother's head uneasy on his pillow at night. I have thus far declined to offer my assistance, however, deeming such matters better off in the hands of government agents." 

The two women looked at one another. It appeared that what they had thought of as a simple matter had turned suddenly more complex... and Rhiannon, for one, felt that ominous foreboding sense again. 

CHAPTER FOUR

Holmes looked gravely at Lady Evangeline and continued, "There have been several disappearances of late, in which the police have declined to take much of an interest. The vicims were all members of, shall I say, several brothels in the waterfront district which cater to clients of unusual tastes." 

The detective looked uncomfortable. Now, it was Rhiannon's turn to pat Holmes' hand in comfort, setting down her empty plate to do so. "You needn't fear scandalizing me, Mr. Holmes," she said. "Considering my former profession, I sincerely doubt you can reveal anything that would shock me." 

Holmes took Rhiannon's small hand and brought it to his lips. "Regardless of your profession, my dear Miss Rhiannon," he said gallantly, "You are nevertheless, in my estimation, a lady of quality. However, you have come to me for facts, and it is my duty to provide them." 

Turning to the amused peer, Holmes said, "You are no doubt familiar with the term 'hermaphrodite'?" 

Lina looked thoughtful. "If you are referring to persons possessing both male and female sexual characteristics, then yes, Holmes. Interesting as the subject might be, what has that to do with my case?" 

"There are two brothels which cater exclusively to a clientele that prefers such persons as their partners. These brothels, The Enchanted Cat and The Triton's Club, are very exclusive and extremely discreet; that means they cater strictly to the wealthy... which, in turn, means power. Powerful men, milady, who would take is seriously amiss if their hobbies were to become fodder for public consumption." 

"I take your warning to heart, Holmes. Do go on." 

"Well then," the saturnine detective said, warming to his subject, "it is not commonly known, but many of the brothel's employees come from a small village in a remote part of Persia. I suspect that their isolation, and generations of inbreeding, are responsible for the plethora of such sports, although they are still relatively rare. The Enchanted Cat has eight such employees; The Triton's Club, being longer established, boasts no less than twelve. In the past two months, one employee from each of these brothels has disappeared without a trace." 

Rhiannon snorted. "Perhaps they found themselves a more permanent situation, Mr. Holmes. Nothing sinister about that. It happened sometimes to girls I knew back in Whitechapel; they'd find themselves a man and get set up somewhere as his mistress." 

Holmes smiled indulgently. "No doubt, Miss Rhiannon, you are correct. However, I have reason to suspect machinations at work here; such persons were well known to the small community they lived in and serviced, and even if they had settled abroad, the possibility of encountering one of their former clients is high enough that we must consider more than one explanation." 

Rhiannon was embarrassed and felt she had spoken out of turn. "It's quite all right, my dear," Lady Evangeline said hastily, noting her lover's discomfort, "Holmes means no censure." Turning to the detective, the peer continued in a warning tone, "Do you, Holmes?" 

"Absolutely not. I only point out that sometimes, the simplest explanation is, regardless of Occam's Razor, not the most likely one." 

There was a pause while the two women, and the detective, refreshed their cups of punch. "Ah," Lady Evangeline said, "This is quite refreshing! Now, Holmes, do continue with your story, I beg of you. You have intrigued me." 

Holmes smiled slightly. "Of course," he said, inclining his head. "Milady's curiosity must be satisfied. What takes these events beyond the realm of coincidence is the fact that both disappearances occurred three days before the full moon. Each time, the principals were spirited away from their living quarters, which, by the way, are kept guarded and locked. All their clothing, jewelry and 'presents' from grateful clientele were still there; there was no sign of a struggle whatsoever." 

"How do you know all this, Mr. Holmes?," Rhiannon asked. 

Holmes shrugged. "It happens that the proprietor of one of these brothels, a Mrs. Choi, doyenne of The Triton's Club, had occasion to call upon me a few days ago. She sought my help in obtaining the whereabouts of her employee but I refused. Frankly, the subject did not interest me." 

"Woe betide the client who brings you a dull case, Holmes!," Lady Evangeline laughed. 

"Indeed. The victims' bodies have never been discovered; there have been no ransom demands of any kind. However, I have reason to believe these personages were abducted by members of the modern Hellfire Club." 

"Why?," Rhiannon asked. 

Holmes grimaced. "There are sinister aspects of the case which I cannot, at this time, discuss. If you choose to investigate further, Lady Lina, you will have to discover them for yourself." 

"Very well, Holmes, I accept your challenge," Lady Evangeline replied. 

The detective looked at her with somber gray eyes. "If you require my assistance..." 

The peer interrupted, "If I need you, I shall not hesitate. But... if it should come to pass that I should require Mycroft's aid..." 

"Lina," Holmes replied, "You have but to ask. I assure you, if I summon Mycroft on this matter - and I should be forced to at any rate if you uncover anything of national importance - rest assured he will come with all the swiftness either of us could desire." 

There was silence for a moment... a silence that was broken by the opening of the door. 

"Holmes!" a familiar voice said, raised in astonishment... and perhaps a little anger. "What the Devil is going on here?!" 

Holmes sat up, giving his wide-eyed guests a rueful smile. "Welcome home, Watson," he said. 

The door slammed as the newly arrived gentleman strode purposefully into the room. John Watson, Holmes' chronicler, roommate and friend for years, stared down at Lady Evangeline with an expression approaching disgust. 

"You! What do you mean by coming here, you damned adventuress?" Watson's normally phlegmatic face was florid with emotion. 

"Watson..." Holmes voice carried a note of warning. "I beg to remind you, there are ladies present." 

Watson's scathing gaze whipped around to Rhiannon, who sat perfectly still. The doctor's blue eyes softened. "I beg your pardon, Miss..." 

Rhiannon extended her hand. "Rhiannon Moore, Dr. Watson. I am Lady Evangeline's secretary." 

"Hmph. Honored, I'm sure." The doctor politely took Rhiannon's hand and shook it gently, then his face hardened and he turned back to the waiting peer. 

"Will you hound him to his grave, woman?," he asked angrily. "Is it not enough that after your last bloody escapade, poor Holmes was in a stupor for days? I quite feared for his life!" 

"Watson, will you cease fussing over me as if I were a child? I am perfectly capable of defending myself from unwanted attentions; it so happens that Lady Evangeline does not fall into that category." Holmes' dark gray eyes held a spark of anger. 

Rhiannon felt uncomfortable. "Um, Lina, maybe we should leave," she whispered in Lady Evangeline's ear. 

The peer shook her head, making the black curls that framed her face bounce. "Not on your life," she whispered back, "I will be damned before I show John Watson the white feather." 

Meanwhile, the argument between the two men escalated. "Holmes, you will let that woman kill you if this goes on! She is nothing more than a common parasite - a thief of your time, your energy and your mentality!" 

Holmes stood. He was a head taller than the doctor and he drew himself up, coiled like a cobra poised to strike. "Watson, I have nothing but the utmost respect for your abilities. However, the day has not yet come when I shall allow you to dictate to me whom I shall befriend, and whom I shall not!" 

Watson recoiled. "Well, then, it is probably an excellent thing that you will not have to bear my presence much longer," he retorted. 

"What do you mean by that?," Holmes replied. His face was drained of anger; for a moment he appeared stricken, then his face assumed a stony expression. 

"I came here to inform you," Watson said angrily, "that I am getting married in May to Miss Mary Morstan. I had considered inviting you to be my best man, but in light of this situation, perhaps it is best that you do not come to the wedding at all." 

"I see." Holmes turned his back and fussed with a limp sandwich while Watson stood there, his face a study in frustration. 

Lina could stand no more. "Dr. Watson," she said, as Watson turned to face her with surprise; he had forgotten the woman was in the room. "Please, do not let my relationship with Holmes ruin your own friendship with him. I assure you, if my presence is so hateful to you, I shall give you my word never to darken his doorstep again." 

Rhiannon held her breath. She knew Lina considered the detective both her mentor and one of her dearest friends; the peer would be giving up much by her willingness never to see Holmes again, if Watson demanded it. 

Watson studied Lady Evangeline for a moment. The peer was beautiful, intelligent, wealthy... and distinctly unconventional. Truth to tell, the lady made Watson feel somehow inferior. Not deliberately, but... and then there was the matter of Holmes... 

Finally, Watson sighed. "A noble offer, milady," he said mildly, "but unnecessary. Holmes, I apologize for my remarks. They were ill-considered and hasty. I apologize to you as well, Lady Evangeline." 

Lina nodded gracefully. "I did not know you were ill, Holmes. Why did you not tell me?" 

The detective sighed and turning back around, flopped back into his chair. "My dear Lady Lina, you are not my nursemaid, either. It was not serious..." 

Watson interrupted, "Not serious! Holmes, you suffered a collapse that nearly put you in hospital!" 

Lady Evangeline chimed in, "Hospital! Holmes, you bloody fool! You allowed me to drag you into danger when you were ill! You could have gotten killed!" 

For once, Lina and John Watson were in complete agreement; poor Holmes suffered the brunt of their unexpected alliance. "My friends," he said, shifting in his chair, "please spare me your histrionics! Watson, my 'collapse,' as you choose to call it, had nothing to do with Lady Evangeline. And Lady Lina, I was not ill when you called upon me to assist you in Whitechapel. It was afterward that... well, that I made an error in judgment." 

Lina's green eyes narrowed. "What sort of error?," she asked. 

Holmes shifted again under the weight of two pairs of accusing eyes. "It seemed that I received a batch of contaminated cocaine from the chemist's. It was that injection which made me ill." 

"Holmes!," Watson exploded. "I have told you again and again, your seven-percent solution will be the death of you one day! You must give up this habit of yours! Three injections daily is neither healthy nor normal. Please, allow me to help you!" 

Holmes threw up his hands in surrender. "Very well, Watson. I bow to your superior medical knowledge. Perhaps heroin will prove to be a less addicting substitution." 

Lady Evangeline motioned to Rhiannon and stood. "Holmes, it is not healthy to inject any substance into your veins. I do not believe in drugs; unlike many women, I do not even indulge in laudanum. Please, please, my old friend, let Watson help you. I do not want to outlive you, you know." 

Watson gave the peer a kindly look. "Yes, listen to her, Holmes. The lady speaks sense." 

Holmes rolled his eyes. "If anything, I will give up cocaine to avoid being hounded to the grave by two such fierce watchdogs." 

Lady Evangeline and Watson exchanged a smile. "Well," the peer said, picking up her parasol, "Rhiannon and I must be going. Good day, Holmes, Dr. Watson. Enjoy your holiday. Oh, and congratulations on your upcoming felicity, Watson. If you do not invite Holmes to the wedding, I shall be seriously put out." 

"Have no fear of that," Watson said. "His position as best man is already secured." 

As the two women took their leave, Watson watched them appraisingly. Perhaps that blasted, opinionated woman is not such a bad creature after all, he thought. 

And the beginnings of respect, and possibly friendship, bloomed in the doctor's breast. 

After all, Watson thought, Holmes is the most unconventional person I know... and Lady Evangeline can hold only a distant candle to my friend. Turning back to Holmes, Watson asked, "Is there any more of Mrs. Hudson's punch, do you think?" 

With a relieved smile, the detective answered, "For you, Watson... always." 

CHAPTER FIVE

Returning home, Rhiannon was not surprised to see a uniform-clad messenger waiting for their arrival. In his gloved hands, the man held a brown paper wrapped package. 

"From Mr. Katchurian, mum," he said respectfully. 

Rhiannon exchanged the package for the letter she had written at Lina's direction and gave the man a coin. "Here's the reply. See that Mr. Katchurian receives this as quickly as possible." 

The messenger tugged his forelock and sped away on his velocipede, a newfangled wheeled invention that had become quite popular in recent years. 

"Was that Katchurian's messenger?," Lady Evangeline asked, running her hands through her loosened curls. The peer had rushed upstairs immediately upon returning to change into a loose robe and a pair of trousers. 

"Yes. The package has arrived and I sent along the letter to M'Peace," Rhiannon replied, then took in Lina's costume with a glint in her pale blue eyes. "Are you planning to wear that all day?," she asked. She tossed the package on the table that stood in the front hall and, hands on hips, watched her lover with a sparkling expression. 

The peer narrowed her own eyes and smiled. "Not unless you can convince me to take it off," she purred. 

Rhiannon moved forward to take Lina's arm and began to pull her back upstairs. "I can be very convincing, you know," she said as she tugged the amused Lina to the master bedroom the two women shared. 

As the door shut, Lady Evangeline's reply floated back down the empty stairs, "Yes, my dear. I know! Oh, how I know!" 

Later, the two women lay side by side in the wide bed Lina had imported at great cost from distant Hong Kong. The four solid mahogany posts were intricately carved into writhing dragons, poppies and carp in a hallucinatory pattern that confused the eye. Antique tapestries from Fleming formed a comforting curtain of privacy around the two lovers; the deep feather mattresses and ivory silk sheets had come from France. 

Lina traced lazy patterns with her forefinger on Rhiannon's stomach. "Tell me, my dear," she asked, "are you happy here?" 

Rhiannon looked at her lover with wide turquoise eyes. "Lina, I am not happy..." The pretty strawberry-blonde waited a moment before continuing emphatically, "I am ecstatic!" She laughed softly as disappointment, then sheer bliss, chased each other rapidly across Lina's features. 

Lady Evangeline leaned forward and kissed Rhiannon's neck gently. "Love, where would you like to dine this evening?" 

Rhiannon shrugged. "It makes no difference to me. Is there somewhere particular you want go?" 

"Well, the Maestro has opened a new restaurant just across from the Lyceum. It is called Le Coq D'Or, and one has heard of marvelous creations coming from the kitchens." 

"Mmmm. Sounds wonderful. Just one thing..." Rhiannon's voice trailed off into a gasp as Lina's kisses against her neck became more passionate and the other woman's fingers moved downward with purpose. 

"Yes?" The peer grinned against Rhiannon's flesh, then trailed kisses all along the strawberry blonde's throat, sucking and nipping gently. It was amazing how sensitive her lover was in that particular area. 

Rhiannon arched her back as incredible sensations thrummed through her body. Sometimes it seemed as if Lina knew her own body better than she did. "Ahhhh... You know I don't speak French very well," she choked, then stopped altogether as she drew breath in a deep, shuddering gasp. 

"Mmmm?" Lady Evangeline sucked gently on Rhiannon's neck, caressing her lover's sensitive flesh a little more rapidly. 

"Ohhhh... Just don't let me order anything that comes from a cow's insides instead of his outsides!," Rhiannon managed to get out, then there were no more words from either of the women for a little while. 

Snuggled together in the gently rocking carriage, Lina studied Rhiannon's features in the pale moonlight that flooded through the unfastened shutter. Rhiannon sighed and laid her head on the taller woman's shoulder, picking gently at a loose sequin on Lina's port-wine velvet gown. 

"Something troubling you, my dear?," the peer asked, ebony brows raised. 

"Nothing at all. Dinner was wonderful, you're wonderful... I just..." 

"Hmmmm?" 

"Well, I just can't help feeling that this life, us, the way you make me feel... is too good to last." 

"Ah. The gods giveth with one hand and taketh away with the other." 

Rhiannon stared out the window pensively. "Exactly. I keep waiting for something to happen. I feel I don't deserve all this happiness." 

Lina hugged the strawberry-blonde woman fiercely. "You deserve every happiness, dearheart. I regret nothing that has happened between us; save only that I cannot give you children... or a legal marriage." 

Rhiannon stared up at Lina's patrician features, dazed. "You mean..." 

"Yes." Lady Evangeline's emerald green eyes held a touch of sadness. "If I were a man, Rhiannon, I would marry you. Your children would be both the heirs of my body and the heirs of my soul. You are my most precious possession, my chiefest treasure, and the last sight I shall carry with me when I leave this world will be of your sweet face. I love you," she concluded with a tiny smile, covering Rhiannon's lips with her own. 

Rhiannon's lashes sparkled with tears, but she refused to shed them. Oh, Lina, she thought, I never knew what love was, 'til I met you.

Neither woman could have predicted that when they arrived home, their plans for the remainder of the evening would be shattered by the gravest news... 

A friend was dead . 

CHAPTER SIX

"Poor William!" 

Lady Evangeline had, upon receiving the news, immediately changed into her men's costume and drove to the police morgue, accompanied by a white-faced Rhiannon, still in her evening gown. 

The former boxer turned bodyguard lay on the cold porcelain slab. William M'Peace had been a giant of a man, fully broad as he was tall, bulging with muscle and ropy tendons. 

His face was battered; nose flat from being broken once too often, ears misshapen with gristle, several front teeth missing altogether. In life, his dark blue eyes had held a mild expression; in death, they bulged from their sockets as if M'Peace's last sight had been one of sheer horror. 

A stained sheet covered the body from the waist down. Raising it, Lady Evangeline let out an exclamation. M'Peace had been gutted, his abdomen ripped wide with considerable force and no little skill. The edges of the devastating wound were surgically clean, with no sign of tearing - whatever weapon his assailant had used, it had been as sharp as a scalpel. 

Most horrifying of all, his manhood had been severed cleanly away. 

Dr. Llewellyn grimaced. "The police were unable to find any of the missing, er, organs at the scene. Judging from the area, Mr. M'Peace was killed somewhere else and his body taken to the wharf where he was found." The doctor was an ordinary looking gentleman, with dark hair and eyes which showed no trace of the grislier aspects of his profession. 

Rhiannon's nostrils were pinched and white. "Um, Lord St. Claire," she said to Lady Evangeline, who had introduced herself by that pseudonym to the doctor, "I think I'll go out and get some air." 

Lady Evangeline turned to the other woman, noticing Rhiannon's sick expression. "Of course, my dear. Take a turn around the front, and return if you are able. Henry will keep watch over you; you will be perfectly safe." 

Rhiannon swiftly fled the room, stomach already heaving. 

The peer turned back to the doctor. "Now, Dr. Llewellyn, you said something about 'organs?"' 

The doctor gave the peer a sharp look. "Yes. The heart is also missing." 

"Lord St. Claire" looked thoughtful. "I presume his assailant must have reached up into the body cavity, since M'Peace's chest is undisturbed." 

"That is so. Upon my examination, I found that the heart had been carved away from the inside. A rather good job, considering the murderer had to work by touch alone." 

"I see." 

"As to the cause of death, I can find nothing to indicate that the man did not bleed to death when his, er, manhood was removed and his viscera exposed. I did find something odd in his stomach, though." 

Lina's green eyes narrowed. "What was that?," she asked. 

"Apparently, prior to his death, M'Peace drank wine laced with ivy and hemlock. The tests are unmistakable - if he had not been eviscerated, the man would have eventually died of the poison alone. It is a curious sort of blessing, in a way; he would have been in such an hallucinogenic state, he would have been incapable of feeling pain. I also found some wafer-like substance; it is difficult to tell with any degree of exactitude exactly what it was, but it appeared to have been dyed black." 

Lina's ebony eyebrows rose to her hairline. "I see," she repeated. "Well, Doctor, you have given me a great deal to think about. If you will be so kind as to have Mr. M'Peace's remains released to my representatives, I shall see to his Christian burial." 

"Of course," the doctor replied. "I must say, it is good of you to see to the arrangements personally, Lord St. Claire. M'Peace must have been considerably more than a casual acquaintance." 

Lina looked down at the bodyguard's still form. "Yes," she replied simply. "He was my friend. Goodnight, Dr. Llewellyn." 

At home, the peer stormed up and down the study, the picture of frustrated rage. "Damn those bloody bastards to uttermost circle of Hell!" she shouted, shaking a fist. 

The first time Rhiannon had been exposed to one of the peer's monumental rages, she had been nearly frightened out of her wits. Now she had grown somewhat used to the occasional fit of temper. She sat on the sofa, dressed in a comfortable silk robe, red-gold hair swirling loosely to her hips, calmly embroidering a pair of gloves - a gift for Lady Evangeline. 

Finally, after nearly a quarter-hour of spitting out every vile curse she knew, Lina's choler subsided, although her face was still red. "Tomorrow morning I am going to pay a call on Madame Choi at The Triton's Club," she said, hands on hips. "I am going to get to the bottom of this sorry business if it kills me!" 

Rhiannon shuddered as a precognitive chill swept through her. "Please, Lina!" she begged, "Don't say that!" 

Lady Evangeline looked down at the woman she shared her life with, and the last bit of her anger melted away. "Whatever do you mean, my dear?" she asked mildly. 

Rhiannon shuddered again. "Don't talk about dying! Please!" The pretty strawberry-blonde was almost in tears. 

Immediately, Lina crossed to the sofa and sat down next to Rhiannon, putting an arm around her waist and pulling her lover close. "It is only an expression, my dear. I have no intention of dying just yet." 

The peer's tone was light, intended to comfort, but Rhiannon grew angry. "Death is nothing to joke about, Lina!" she said emphatically. "Especially yours," she concluded miserably. 

Lina put a finger beneath Rhiannon's chin and tilted the other woman's sweet, heart-shaped face up; her eyes shimmered with tears. Kissing her softly on the lips, the raven-haired lady said, "Sweetheart, whatever is the matter? I have never seen you so upset over a trifle." 

" I just... I can't explain it," Rhiannon said. "I just have this terrible feeling, that's all. Like something awful is going to happen to you, and I can't stand it!" She began to weep, tears cascading down her face like droplets of silver rain. 

Lina put both arms around the smaller woman and gently pulled Rhiannon against her shirtfront, hands caressing her back. "Shhhh, my love," Lina said, "Please. You know I cannot stand it when you cry like this. It is quite all right, Rhiannon. I give you my word that I shall take the utmost care in dealing with this case. I love you, my wonderful, wild, Welsh beauty - and I intend to spend many more years at your side." 

Despite the words of comfort, Rhiannon still felt sick to her stomach. She had sometimes had these feelings - like just before her old friend Black Janet had died last month. The strawberry-blonde woman had known something terrible was going to happen, and it had. 

Poor Black Janet, Rhiannon thought, run over by a carriage on her way to a tavern, drunk as an earl on rotgut gin.

She snuggled her face into Lady Evangeline's neck. "Promise me you'll be careful," she insisted, wiping her wet cheek with the back of her hand. 

"I give you my oath, sweet, as a Peer of the Realm and the daughter of a noble line. Will that suffice?" 

Rhiannon looked up into the face of the woman she loved more than anything or anyone in the world. "Yes. I suppose that will have to do." Silently, Rhiannon renewed her own vow to protect the peer at all costs; it was only because of that vow that she had accompanied Lina to the morgue that evening; otherwise, no amount of wild horses could have dragged her into that terrible place. 

Later that night, as Rhiannon lay curled in a sleeping Lina's strong arms, she thought fiercely, I must get her to teach me the use of that pistol Holmes gave me. Then, come what may, I will be ready!

Sleep was still a long time in coming... and when it did, dark dreams haunted Rhiannon until dawn.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Katchurian's face was a study in dismay. "I have no explanation, milady. One minute he was here and the next, poof! Gone. I was asleep upstairs when it happened. The police questioned me this morning and I told them all I know, which is not much.'' The interior of his shop was dusty, filled with the peculiar scent of crumbling books, gilt and old furniture, and crammed to the rafters with miscellaneous bits of this and that. 

Lady Evangeline looked at the antiques dealer with slitted green eyes. "Perhaps you will be kind enough to relate all that you do know, Mr. Katchurian," she said in a dangerous purr. 

Katchurian gulped. Lady St. Claire is a formidable woman, he thought, one very used to command... and having her commands obeyed.

Katchurian related his story while Rhiannon scribbled notes. He had obtained M'Peace's services via Lady Evangeline's letter of introduction. The bodyguard had stayed close to him all day, albeit maintaining a low profile in the shop. 

M'Peace had eaten lunch with Katchurian, there had been a little business that afternoon, and the two men had shared a simple dinner. Then, the dealer had gone to his rooms (his living quarters were above the shop - a most convenient arrangement), leaving M'Peace to guard the downstairs. 

Katchurian had slept soundly, save for a nightmare he now found difficult to recall. "It is not important," he said, waving one hand, "but when I woke up, I found something terrible. I did not even tell the police this...'' 

He handed Lady Evangeline a box. Opening it cautiously, the peer looked inside, then slammed the lid shut. She was white to the lips and her mouth was drawn into a tight line. "Thank you, Mr. Katchurian," she said, "With your permission, I will take this item with me for closer examination." 

"Do what you wish," Katchurian said. His handlebar mustache seemed more limp than ever. "I do not want such things in my shop or my home!" 

Lady Evangeline rose, adjusting her skirts with a gloved hand. She wore a charcoal gray skirt that fell in folds to her ankles; the hem was trimmed with ropes of black roccocco braid. A matching jacket allowed the lace trimmed bodice of her neat ivory shirtwaist to peep through. The hat that perched on her raven curls sported ostrich feathers dyed in graduated shades of gray, like a night sky increasingly diluted with cream. 

"Let us go, Rhiannon," she said to her companion. "We have further business this morning." 

Rhiannon closed her notebook and thrust it and her mechanical pencil into the beaded reticule that hung from her slender wrist. "Good day, Mr. Katchurian," she said politely. The dealer acknowledged her with a wave but said nothing; he was obviously extremely distressed by the events of the previous evening. 

When they were in the hired cab (Lady Evangeline had declined to ask Henry to drive them to the seedy wharf district, much to the coachman's disappointment), Rhiannon asked, "Lina, what's the matter? What's in the box that's so distressing?" 

Lady Evangeline stared out of the window. The box, with its mysterious contents, lay on the seat, as far away as the peer could place it. Looking at her lover with expressionless green eyes, the peer replied, "It is better you do not know, my dear. Leave it alone for a little while; I promise I shall explain later." 

Rhiannon subsided. For their jaunt, she had selected one of her new dresses (or relatively new - Lina had been most generous regarding her secretary's wardrobe), a peach colored ensemble trimmed with row upon row of fluffy white feathers. The hat that tilted becomingly over one eye had been trimmed in white dove's feathers and dark peach braid. 

She fussed with her reticule as they continued their drive. Finally, Rhiannon said, "Lina? I'm sorry about Mr. M'Peace. I know you told me he was a good friend of yours, and I'm also sorry I never had the opportunity to meet him." 

Lina looked at the smaller woman, her face abruptly crumpling with grief although she did not cry. "He was considerably more than just a 'friend,' my dear," she replied. "William and I were... well, once upon a time, we were lovers." 

Rhiannon was shocked. She had known the peer had not been a virgin but had assumed that marriage to the late Sir Albert had been responsible for that loss. "You mean, you..," she squeaked, then stopped. 

The peer smiled sadly. "Yes. Shortly after my husband's death, I met William. In fact, it was Holmes who introduced us. He might have appeared to be a brute, Rhiannon, but William M'Peace possessed a poet's soul." 

Rhiannon gulped. "Were you in love with him?" she asked, silently chiding herself for the nearly overwhelming sense of jealously that burned in her heart. 

"No. We were lovers only briefly; I suppose I needed the comfort he was able to provide. I did not love my husband, Rhiannon; ours was a marriage of convenience, forced upon me by my family. Poor Albert! So eagerly anticipating the bridal bed - his lascivious nature proved to be the death of him. Yet, I felt... well, I felt some sense of guilt and responsibility for Albert's demise. After all, his heart attack was provoked by my 'charms' to a certain extent." 

The two women were silent as long moments passed. Finally, Rhiannon said, "So your husband never consummated the marriage?" 

"No," Lina replied flatly. "It is my greatest secret, Rhiannon. Should the news become common knowledge, it would endanger not only my position and my fortune, but my life as well. Albert's relatives, vultures all, would not hesitate to destroy me in order to get their beastly hands on his money. As it was, I was forced to go to court to prevent them from contesting the old man's will." 

Rhiannon stared at her lover with wide, pale blue eyes. "Oh, I swear, Lina! I'll never tell a soul!" 

Lina leaned forward and patted Rhiannon's hand. "I trust you, sweet. I would not have told you the truth otherwise." 

"Does Mr. Holmes know?" 

The peer sighed. "Yes. Holmes wormed the truth out of me after William and I went our separate ways. I was drunk at the time and I truly believe that man took advantage of my state just to satisfy his infernal curiosity! Nevertheless, I trust Holmes with my life; I know my secret, like so many others, is safe with him." 

Rhiannon still felt a small canker of jealousy eating at her. "I suppose you and William remained very close... after?" Part of me's glad that he's dead, she thought, and the other part's horrified I would even think such a thing. Lord! I'm turning into a monster...

The strawberry blonde woman's tone finally registered. Lina realized that Rhiannon, never a paragon of self-esteem, must be feeling very insecure at the moment. My poor darling!, she thought. I suspect it never occurred to her until now that I have a past as well.

Abruptly, Lina shifted her seat so that she sat next to Rhiannon, and put her arms around the other woman. "Rhiannon, I have never, and shall never, love any other person the way I love you. I cannot say it often enough; you are worth more to me than all the gold of Agra, and if anything should happen to you, I doubt I should live a moment after." 

Rhiannon, who had stiffened when Lady Evangeline had embraced her, relaxed into the strong arms she loved. "I'm sorry, Lina. I'm being stupid, I suppose. It's just that..." 

"I understand. William and I were together at a time in my life when I required the comfort of someone's arms; he saved me from allowing guilt and self-recrimination to etch my heart too deeply; he saved me from bitterness and helped me understand myself more fully. I loved him like a brother and a friend; now, I seek his murderer, so William's soul can rest in peace." 

Rhiannon leaned her head against her lover's broad shoulder. It never ceased to amaze her how much Lina's sense of honor and justice were as powerful as her views and opinions were unconventional. "I love you terribly, you know," Rhiannon said softly. "I can't help being jealous; the thought of someone else making love to you makes me want to howl. If this makes me a bad person, then perhaps..." 

Lady Evangeline hugged the smaller woman more fiercely and kissed the top of her red-gold braids, neatly avoiding Rhiannon's hat. "My love," she said, "You are not a bad person for feeling jealous. How do you think I have felt, wondering about the men you must have encountered when you were a prostitute? Wondering if you are comparing my lovemaking to theirs? Wondering if you had felt anything 'special' for any of them, perhaps fallen in love with some unbearded youth, berating myself for even thinking such a thing. I, too, have felt the 'worm i' the bud', dearheart. It might not be pretty, but rest assured, it is a normal part of human nature." 

Rhiannon sat up. "Oh, Lina! I had no idea you felt that way. Why didn't you tell me?" 

The peer shrugged helplessly, ostrich feathers bobbing becomingly over one ear. "I did not want to hurt you, my dear. I felt you had been exposed enough to sordity and violence; I wanted to protect you from my darker self." 

Rhiannon threw her arms around the astonished Lina and squeezed, burying her face in her lover's neck. "I love all your parts, Lina. Even the darker ones," she murmured into the peer's throat. "Don't hide anything from me, please. I want to know all of you, in every way I possibly can." 

Lady Evangeline's green eyes filled with tears. This woman had touched her in ways no other person had, or ever could, and every day brought a new revelation. "My love," she whispered huskily, and said nothing more, merely hugging her lover closer to her as the carriage jounced and rolled its way to their destination. 

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Triton's Club proved to be a dilapidated building whose every window had been boarded up; the only sign of occupancy were the linens that flapped in the river breeze, hanging from a line in the alley. 

"Are you sure this is the right place?" Rhiannon asked, pinning her hat more firmly in place. 

"Quite." Lady Evangeline consulted the small, gold edged card she clutched in one hand. "This is the address on the card Holmes gave me. Well, there is no use dawdling, my dear. Let us beard this lioness in her den, and perhaps we shall gain some useful information." 

Entrance proved to be laughably easy. Lina put on her haughtiest aristocratic manner, and the doorman, a hulking brute with a patch over one eye, had been so overawed he had admitted the two woman without question, though with a tiny glint of speculation in his one good eye. 

Madame Choi proved to be a willow-slender Oriental woman of indeterminate years. "How may I help you?" she asked in perfect English without a trace of accent. Keen intelligence shone in her almond shaped eyes, black as onyx buttons in a finely boned face. 

Lady Evangeline silently handed the madame the card she had received from Holmes; the peer's face was expressionless. The card was Choi's own; the woman had left it with Holmes should he change his mind and wish to become involved in the kidnapping case. 

Madame Choi obviously recognized it. "This is a card I reserve for special clients, milady." She regarded each woman in turn, a tiny smile curving her Cupid's-bow lips. "Perhaps you will be kind enough to tell me where you obtained it." 

"From Mr. Sherlock Holmes, madame." Lina's voice was coldly formal. "He has spoken to me of your unfortunate situation; as I believe the kidnapping has aspects bearing on a case I am currently engaged on, I wished to speak to you without delay. Holmes was good enough to allow me the use of your card to gain entrance to your establishment." 

"I see," Choi replied. Turning away, she gestured broadly. "Please, accompany me to my private parlor. I believe I can satisfy your desire... for information." 

Rhiannon's eyes were wide as she took in the magnificently furnished rooms; some of the paintings on the walls she recognized as Old Masters. Although most of the walls had been papered in pale gold brocade, Choi's own parlor was done in every shade of blue imaginable. The effect was somewhat like being underwater; from the carpet to the ceiling, from the overstuffed divans to the curtains, everything was cool blue. 

Rhiannon settled down on a fringed ottoman, resting her notebook and pencil on her knee. Choi regarded her with something approaching amusement in her dark eyes. "I see you have brought a secretary with you," she said to Lina, who was perched on the edge of a davenport upholstered in peacock-blue brocade featuring human figures intertwined in amazing, not to mention impossible, sexual positions. 

Lina flicked a fold of her skirt. "Yes," she replied shortly. Taking her jade-and-platinum cigarette case from her reticule, she asked, "Do you mind if I smoke?" 

Choi inclined her head. Her every movement was a study in languid grace; Rhiannon felt positively gawky in contrast. "Of course not," she replied. The Oriental woman's voice was as smooth and honeyed as Swiss chocolates. "Please do; I have no objection, milady." 

The peer made a production of selecting one of the dark Egyptian cigarettes she preferred and striking a lucifer. The sulfuric odor of the match was a sharp contrast to the scent of exotic incense that hung in the air like a shroud. 

Rhiannon wondered what Lina was up to. The other woman was behaving in a way that was totally at odds with her character; normally, she might have appeared friendly, formidable or challenging, whatever the situation required, but not so cold. 

Her beautiful face wreathed in tendrils of smoke, Lady Evangeline said, "I understand that one of your employees disappeared a month ago, madame. What can you tell me about the matter?" 

Choi leaned back and steepled her forefingers together. She wore jeweled guards on the fingernails of each hand; Rhiannon wondered how the woman ever picked anything up with such long claws to contend with. "First, my employee was named Naga; she was one of my best ladies and had been a favorite of my customers for several years. I suspect Holmes has informed you of the peculiar nature of my trade?" 

"He has." Lina said nothing more; in the cool, blue light that permeated the room, her face had all the expression of a Grecian statue. 

Choi smiled. "Then I need not explain how much Naga's disappearance has affected my business. Although I have eleven other ladies, none are as pleasing as Naga, nor as popular." 

"Why do you believe Naga was kidnapped, rather than run away?" 

"You must understand. My ladies come from foreign countries; although they speak English with varying degrees of competence, none would be comfortable living in London without assistance of some kind. Furthermore, Naga had only a few short years left on her contract; she had been saving her money with the intention of returning to Persia and her family. No, she would not have left such a lucrative situation, nor would she have left all her money and jewels behind." 

Lina leaned back against the davenport and gazed at the Oriental woman stonily. For a few moments, she merely drew on her cigarette, clouds of smoke billowing from her lips. 

Then, with the speed of a striking cobra, the peer leaned forward and hissed, "There is something else, madame. Something you are concealing from me... I know it." 

For the first time, Choi appeared flustered. She ran one finger around the mandarin collar of her loose teal robe. "I... I do not understand," she began, but Lina interrupted. 

"I believe you do. Perhaps you sold Naga yourself for an irresistible price. There are individuals of wealth and position whose baser inclinations might prompt them to such an action." 

Now, Choi relaxed. "You are incorrect, milady," she said with a trace of smugness. "Why would I sell for a single sum what I could rent for many such sums?" 

"True." Lina appeared thoughtful. "Then it must be something else. Perhaps you found something the morning of the disappearance. Something... unusual." 

Fine beads of sweat pearled on Choi's upper lip. "I do not know what you are talking about," she replied flatly, but her hands clenched the folds of her robe. 

"Was it evidence of witchcraft, madame? Was that what you found?" The peer's green eyes were intense. 

For a moment, it appeared as if Choi were going to protest again; then her head bowed in defeat. Her blue-black hair, fine and straight as a bone, slithered over the shoulders of her silk robe. "It is even as you have said, milady. I did indeed find a terrible omen that morning. A sign from the Peacock Prince." 

Rising, Choi crossed the room to a teak box that stood on a carved ebony stand. Taking it up, she walked back to Lady Evangeline and handed it to her. "The... object is within. I have showed it only to Mr. Holmes and the diviners; I had to pay much gold for an exorcism, to avoid the bad joss of hungry ghosts." 

Lina did not open the lid. "Why have you kept it all this time? Would not the priests have insisted on burying or burning it?" 

Choi shrugged. "I am only a simple woman, milady. The priest told me that the vessel of the evil spirits had been purified; it was only a relic now. Out of respect for the unfortunate person's ancestors, he told me I should keep it in a safe place until one should come to claim it." 

Bowing from the waist, Choi continued, "It is yours now, Lady St. Claire. I give it to you freely." 

Lina's face paled a little. "Thank you," she said politely, although her voice held a note of irony. She laid the box aside. "Where was it found?" 

Choi coiled back into her seat. "Belowstairs, on the mantel in the common room. My guard was also discovered; he was fast asleep. I thought to punish him but the priest told me it was not his fault; he had been placed under an evil spell." 

"Did anything unusual happen that night?" 

The madame picked at the gorgeously embroidered phoenix on the front of her robe. "Only that all in the house, including the servants, suffered terrible nightmares, nightmares from which they could not awaken." 

Lina relaxed a little. "Did Naga have any relatives in this country?" 

"No. I remember that she told me once that her sister, a concubine of the Nassered-Din, had stayed for a little while in London while His Majesty was visiting this country. As far as I know, Naga's sister returned to Persia with her Lord and Master." 

Lady Evangeline looked startled. "Did you say the Nassered- Din? The Shah of Persia?" 

"I did." 

Once again, Lina's beautiful face bore a thoughtful expression. "This would have been approximately eleven years ago?" 

"Indeed. Now, milady, you must excuse me. I have much to do to prepare for this evening's business." 

Choi rose, and Lady Evangeline rose as well, gesturing for Rhiannon to follow. In silence, the Oriental woman led her unexpected and unwelcome guests to the front door. "I wish you and this pretty child much joy and happiness in my information, Lady St. Claire. And in my gift as well." Choi's gesture indicated the teak box clutched in Lina's hand and her voice dripped with poisonous sweetness. 

The peer leaned forward until her face was mere inches from the madame's. Nostrils pinched in anger, Lady Evangeline said softly, "Do you remember what happened the last time you threatened me and mine, Sui Lee?" 

Choi recoiled. 

Without another word, Lady Evangeline swept from the house, shoulders thrust back proudly, Rhiannon skittering on her heels. As they climbed into the waiting carriage, the strawberry-blonde woman risked a look over her shoulder. In the doorway, the slender Oriental woman leaned against the one-eyed guard, an expression of absolute terror on her golden face. 

CHAPTER NINE

Lady Evangeline ignored all of Rhiannon's overtures in the carriage on the way home. The dark-haired peer said nothing at all; not even grunting in reply to Rhiannon's inquiries. Not only did she appear lost in thought, she also seemed on the verge of an explosion. 

Finally, the smaller woman subsided. I'm not sure what went on between Lina and that Choi creature, but she'll tell me when she's ready, Rhiannon thought hopefully. 

However, there was no further discussion that evening. Despite Rhiannon's efforts, Lady Evangeline refused dinner (which nearly caused an incredibly angry Cook to give notice on the spot), and remained locked within the study, staring broodingly into the fireplace and smoking cigarette after cigarette. 

Even the redoubtable Jackson had refused to lend his aid. "When she gets in these black moods, Miss," the housekeeper/butler had said, a rueful expression on his face, "it's best to leave her be. Milady will get over it soon." 

Cook had been a little more forthright. "'Ere, now, don't fret yerself inter a state, luv. Oi've known Milaidy fer years; she gets in a sulk sometoimes about one thing er ennother. Just leave 'er be, an' let 'er act loike a spoiled missy if she wants." It was obvious that Cook was still a little miffed over Lina's refusal to eat the dinner that the enormous woman had spent hours preparing. 

Rhiannon was at a loss. The pretty secretary had determined to remain with the sullen peer but eventually stumbled off to bed, unable to keep her eyes open a moment longer. All of her hints about wanting company in bed had been brushed aside by a monosyllabic Lina. 

The next morning, Rhiannon's turquoise eyes looked bruised and her heart-shaped face was pale and drawn. God help me! I've come to need Lina so much I can't get to sleep without her next to me, the bone-weary young woman thought. 

Jackson confided at the breakfast table, "There's been no change, Miss. She spent the night in there; about an hour ago, she opened up the study and commanded Buttercup to bring tea, and to be, if you will excuse the expression, 'bloody quick about it.' I took a tray in myself, but Milady said nothing to me; indeed, she seemed not to notice my presence at all." 

Rhiannon sighed. Another day like yesterday, she thought, and I'll end up in Bedlam! She couldn't eat; she stirred her food around the plate with a fork and numbly drank a cup of heavily sugared tea before she realized that she preferred her tea unsweetened. 

The distinct rattle of the study's pocket door made Rhiannon look up sharply. Then, she heard Lady Evangeline's voice raised. "Jackson? Ask Rhiannon to step my study for a moment, if you please." 

Rhiannon leaped up from the table, running her hands hastily over the red-gold braids that hung down over each shoulder, and straightening her dull tangerine morning gown of raw silk with nervous twitches of her fingers. 

Jackson entered the dining room, a slight smile on his colorless face. "Milady desires your presence in the study, Miss," he said. 

The pretty strawberry-blonde practically raced to the study, feet skimming over the broad, oak-planked floors. She paused to pinch her cheeks in the hopes of bringing some color to her pale face, then slid the pocket door aside and entered her lover's sanctum, her heart pounding against her chest. 

Lina appeared much the way Rhiannon had left her; still dressed in disreputable black trousers and a soft linen shirt, unbuttoned at the neck and tucked in casually; rolled sleeves revealed her muscular forearms to the elbow. 

The room was thick with a fog of stale smoke; Rhiannon immediately crossed the room and pulled aside a thick, crimson velvet curtain. Lady Evangeline winced and covered her eyes with one hand. "Close the curtains, Rhiannon," she croaked. 

The smaller woman not only disobeyed, she pulled the curtains wider and threw up the sash of the window, allowing clean air to pull the stench of smoke out of the room. "I can't breathe, Lina. Good Lord! It smells like the entire peerage has been indulging in cigars and port in here! How can you stand it?" 

Lina did not answer the secretary's pert question. Instead, she sat up with a groan and indicated an ottoman drawn up next to the sofa. "Sit down, my dear. We have serious business to discuss." 

Rhiannon was apprehensive; the peer's green eyes were swollen and bloodshot, and she appeared listless and strained. She settled herself down on the ottoman and allowed Lina to take her hands. "Whatever is the matter, Lina?" Rhiannon asked. 

"Please, love. Just listen. As you once told me the story of your past, I, too, have a tale to relate; at its conclusion, if you wish to leave, I shall not stop you." 

Rhiannon could not imagine the circumstances under which she would abandon the woman she loved, but seeing the utterly serious expression on the peer's face, she swallowed her protest and allowed the other woman to speak. 

"You may have wondered how Madame Choi knew my name without an introduction; you may also have speculated as to the meaning of my parting words." 

Rhiannon nodded, and Lina continued. "I have spent the night in contemplation, considering whether to lie to you, to gloss over the true circumstances of my acquaintance with that woman, or to simply tell you the truth and suffer the consequences. As you may imagine, this decision did not come easily. In the end, I decided that I could not lie, nor could I sin by omission. You deserve to know the truth. Yesterday, you expressed your desire to know all of me, light and dark. Here, then, is the story of the darkest deed I have ever done, and the source of my eternal shame." 

CHAPTER TEN

As Lady Evangeline spoke, Rhiannon's stomach twisted. Although she longed to throw herself on the other woman and stop her mouth, to cry and drown out the drone of Lina's voice, she could not - she was paralyzed with dread. 

"Five years before I met you, my dear, I made the acquaintance of one Sui Lee Wan, a pretty Oriental girl who told me she was being held against her will by Tabitha Strong, a whorehouse madame with a vicious temper and a knack for punishing errant 'girls' without leaving visible marks. 

"I shall not go into the circumstances which led me to Sui Lee; suffice it to say it was during one of my cases. At any rate, I soon determined to end Sui Lee's imprisonment. She was the most intelligent, beautiful and graceful woman I had ever seen, and frankly, I was enthralled by her. At the time, I did not realize that I was infatuated; I truly believed that I felt only pity that such a creature should be held captive by the sadistic Madame Strong, and my honor and sense of duty were engaged. 

"I soon put my plan into motion. I obtained a plumber's rocket, and, disguising myself as an elderly clergyman, soon gained entrance to the brothel. I was forced to endure Strong's fluttering, sour-sweet attentions until my gorge rose, but I stood fast. I was thoroughly full of myself, and believed I was doing a great and chivalrous service." 

Lady Evangeline paused a moment to sip the half-empty glass of brandy that sat on the floor beside her. With a sigh, she lay back and rested her head on the arm of the sofa, eyes closed but still clasping one of Rhiannon's hands. 

"It was but the work of a moment to light the fuse of the rocket and conceal it within the brothel's common room. As I had explained to Sui Lee, the thick smoke would make pursuit impossible, and we could make our escape with no one the wiser. 

"The initial phase of our plan went well. Both guests and ladies panicked and began running to the exits, screaming 'Fire!' Even Madame Strong deserted what she believed to be a sinking ship. I waited for Sui Lee by the kitchen door, as arranged... and waited. She never came. As the smoke began to thin, and employees straggled back in, I fled. 

"That night, I lay in an agony. I believed that something had gone horribly wrong; perhaps Strong had suspected Sui Lee's duplicity, perhaps even as I tossed on my sleepless pillow, the gentle girl was being tortured, or worse. 

"Three days past without a word. I was frantic; discreet inquiries had proved that Sui Lee had not been seen since the night of the mock-fire. Then, Holmes came uninvited to my door." 

Lady Evangeline blanched a little, remembering how angry the detective had been. She had never seen Holmes in a true rage before; his murderous expression had terrified the peer. "Holmes was furious, and he threw down a copy of the Times. Madame Strong's brothel had been burned to the ground by unknown arsonists that very night; Holmes demanded to know if I had done the deed." 

Rhiannon gasped. Lina squeezed the other woman's fingers and continued, "It had not been my hand that set the fire, that much I knew and explained to Holmes. He had known of my plan to rescue Sui Lee but feared it had gotten out of hand. We agreed that the matter was worthy of inquiry and went our separate ways." 

"For two years - nothing. Holmes would occasionally bring me some bit of gossip, but no clues, nothing concrete. Sui Lee had vanished without a trace. Then, on a fine summer morning in June of 1885, Jackson admitted a woman into my study. That woman was Sui Lee. 

"She was finely dressed, and appeared quite prosperous. I, of course, demanded to know what the Devil happened that night, why she had fled without me, what she had done for the past two years. In my nightmares, I still hear her answer." 

Rhiannon listened in horror as Lady Evangeline spun Sui Lee's tale: a sordid one of greed, blackmail and cold blooded murder. The delicate Chinese girl had not been a prisoner of Tabitha Strong's - she had been a business partner. Much of the tale of woe she had woven for Lina's benefit had been lies. 

Sui Lee had wished to become successful and very wealthy, and to do that, she needed to get rid of Tabitha Strong. That cunning old woman knew too many of Sui Lee's secrets - the Oriental had been blackmailing customers for years, threatening to make their sexual escapades public knowledge. So, Sui Lee had determined that Strong must die. 

"She used me, Rhiannon," Lady Evangeline explained, "She waited, patiently as a spider in its web, for the right person to come along. That I was a woman mattered little; she told me in her cool, little voice that she would even have offered her body to me if that sacrifice had been necessary to obtain my assistance in her vile scheme." 

Sui Lee had guided Lina every step of the way, pretending to be innocent, using the peer's unconscious attraction and sense of honor to further her plan. Then, the night of the planned escape, she had hidden belowstairs. "After I left," Lady Evangeline continued, "she crept down and in the confusion, cut Strong's throat. Then she set the fire with her own dainty hands; after, of course, taking with her the brothel's customer lists, money and jewels." 

Rhiannon was open-mouthed. "B-b-but that doesn't explain...," she began, when Lady Evangeline waved her free hand for silence. 

"Let me finish the tale. The more Sui Lee told me, the angrier I became. I felt betrayed; more than that, I knew that I had been made an accomplice to murder. But most of all, I felt a monumental fool. Sui Lee had damaged my ego; she manipulated me like a blind puppy, and that I allowed her to do so was almost more than I could bear. 

"Then came the final blow. Sui Lee had come to inform me she needed my 'assistance' again, this time to punish an Earl who had failed to make his regular blackmail payments. If I did not help her, she said, she would tell the police everything about Strong; she would make sure I was ruined. And she further threatened to harm those who knew about the scheme; somehow, that bitch had discovered Holmes' knowledge of the plan." 

Lady Evangeline paused again, and without opening her eyes, fumbled the brandy glass in her hand and gulped like a hardened drunkard. 

Her voice harsh, the peer said, "I fell upon her in a rage. I beat her, Rhiannon; I beat her savagely and left her for dead, running from my own home like a madwoman. I eventually, by some miracle, found my way to Holmes'. 

"I told him the whole story. He said nothing; he had Watson give me a sedative and I slept for two days. When I awoke, Holmes was there. He told me only that the matter had been resolved; I could not bring myself to press for details. 

"I did not know until today that Sui Lee and Madame Choi were one and the same person. Imagine my shock when I saw her face for the first time in three years - I had thought her dead and buried. 

"I sent a message to Holmes yesterday after we returned, demanding an explanation. His reply came last night. Read it for yourself." Lady Evangeline tossed a sheet of much folded foolscap into Rhiannon's lap. 

With trembling fingers, Rhiannon unfolded the paper and read:

"Lina, some ghosts you must exorcise by yourself and for yourself. The past cannot be changed. It is time, and past time, for you to face this situation ON YOUR OWN. I am your friend, but even I cannot protect you from your own guilt. Your Friend, Sherlock Holmes." 

Rhiannon laid down the paper. "So, Holmes chose not to tell you Sui Lee was alive in order to force you to face what you did three years ago." 

Lady Evangeline sighed wearily. "Yes. I did a terrible and shameful thing, Rhiannon. Despite the fact that she was a criminal, she did not deserve what I did to her. That episode is the one and only time I have ever allowed my temper to overrule me. After that, I have exercised great care in controlling the violent side of my nature. 

"Nevertheless, and despite what you may think of Sui Lee, I know you must harbor strong feelings against me. Who would not, knowing what I have done? Nor can I blame you if you find me intolerable now; I am not sure I can live with myself, either. Please understand, Rhiannon, if you find me hateful and unworthy, as I am sure you must, then I will bear you no censure if you wish to leave."

Tears began to flow from beneath Lady Evangeline's closed eyelids, and she stifled a sob. Then the peer began to cry silently; without a sound but in obvious agony. 

Rhiannon sat still, her mind still reeling from Lina's revelations. She had known of the peer's violent streak - remembering the way Lina had attacked Jack the Ripper without hesitation was one of her fondest memories - but she was surprised by her lover's admission of brutality. 

Then she recalled the day when she had first seen one of Lina's fits of temper; it had frightened her terribly. But the peer had told her then that she would never hurt someone she considered her friend... 

Rhiannon remembered something else, too - Choi, or Sui Lee, had not shown fear. They must have recognized one another simultaneously, Rhiannon thought, and Choi did not seem afraid of Lina, until the end.

"Lina," she asked, trying to contain her instinctive urge to comfort the other woman, "Why did Madame Choi say she gave you that box freely and wished you joy in it?" 

Lina sat up and wiped her face with the back of her hand. Her breast still heaved with silent sobs, but she managed to get out, "She... hoped... the evil... she still believed... that object contained... would fall... on me... and you as well." 

Now Rhiannon understood. In giving Lina the box, with its frightening contents, the Oriental woman had hoped to curse the peer, to harm her. And Lina had accepted it without turning a hair... believing that whatever befell, it was only what she deserved. But for Rhiannon's sake, she had threatened Choi, willing to relinquish hard- won control to see her safe... 

Without hesitation, Rhiannon threw her arms around Lady Evangeline. "What a wicked, spiteful thing to do!,"she exclaimed. "Sui Lee is a terrible woman, Lina. I wish you had killed her!" 

"Please, Rhiannon!," the dark-haired peer said in agony, "Do not say such things! I cannot blame Sui Lee for wishing to harm me..." 

"Nonsense!" The smaller woman was incensed. "If someone had hurt me as much as she did you, I would have been tempted myself." 

"Yes, but would you have yielded?" Lady Evangeline's eyes were even more swollen than before and her nose was redder than a cherry. 

Rhiannon considered the question soberly. "Yes," she said slowly, "yes, I would. Lina, if you were threatened, I would kill that person without hesitation, or yes, even beat them if I were able! You might think me a mere child, Evangeline St. Claire, but remember that I survived for years on the streets of Whitechapel. Every day I saw women beaten, mutilated, even killed by those who claimed to have their welfare at heart." 

"But what I did! Even a monster deserves no such treatment!" 

"You are wrong. Monsters deserve whatever they get, particularly monsters like Sui Lee Wan. Consider this: What if you'd yielded to her demands? You and I would never have met, and I would have become the first of the Ripper's victims. And if you'd refused? You would be a ruined woman, possibly even selling your body as I did to fend off starvation. And what of poor Holmes, whose only crime was his friendship with you?" 

Rhiannon wiped the peer's wet face with her hand. "You lost control. You learned from that, Lina, and you have taken steps to prevent it ever happening again. I am not afraid of you, nor do I wish to leave you. I have never felt safer in my life than in your arms." 

Lady Evangeline began to weep again, keening like a broken- hearted child. Rhiannon held her lover in her arms, rocking the bigger woman gently, stroking the ink-black hair that spilled down her back. 

"I love you, Lina," Rhiannon whispered, over and over, "I love you no matter what you have done, or what you will do. Nothing will ever change that. Nothing." 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

After such an emotional morning, the two women had, by mutual consent, stayed in their bedroom the rest of the day. 

Rhiannon set out to prove, over and over again with ferocious energy, the strength of her devotion to the still insecure peer. Finally, an exhausted Lina threw out her hands and cried, "Enough! I believe you, my dear! No more, I beg you!" 

Rhiannon looked at her lover's body with satisfaction. Lady Evangeline was covered with a fine sheen of sweat; her jet-black hair clung in raveled strands to her curves. The alabaster skin so admired by Rhiannon was now blotched with love bites, and a spectacular bruise blossomed on Lina's throat. 

"Are you sure?," Rhiannon panted. "I don't want to have to start all over again in the morning." 

Lady Evangeline raised one ebony brow and laughed weakly. "Quite certain, love. If you continue in this vein, I fear I shall expire, though no doubt with an enormous smile stretched across my features." Lina pulled Rhiannon down on top of her and kissed the strawberry-blonde's forehead. "Nothing else need be said or proven. I am convinced you do not hate me, and mere words cannot express the depth of my feelings towards you, either at this moment or beyond." 

Rhiannon snuggled into the larger woman's body, a tiny smile on her face. Even in the midst of a spectacular climax, Lina's language always held the formality of the upper class and she never failed to find that humorous. 

They lay this way for some time, luxuriating in each other's closeness. However, even blissful moments must pass, and Lady Evangeline soon shifted her body beneath Rhiannon's. "I fear we must get ready for dinner, my dear. Cook will almost certainly give notice if we are late." 

Rhiannon moaned in protest. "Must we?" At that moment, her stomach chose to emit a loud rumble and both women laughed. 

"Indeed," Lady Evangeline said with a smile, "I fear if we do not satisfy the hungry beast within, my dear, you will resort to complete cannibalism, instead of only partial." 

Rhiannon took in the peer's bruised body and snorted. 

"Is this where the beastie lives, then?," Lina said with a wicked grin, poking Rhiannon's belly with one forefinger; Rhiannon retaliated with a giggle, and very quickly, a tickle fight erupted that ultimately burst one feather pillow and covered both wildly laughing women with feathers. 

"Woof!," Rhiannon exclaimed finally, blowing lightly at a feather clinging to one rosy nipple. "I'm for the watercloset; I'm so full my back teeth are floating." 

Despite her tired state, Lady Evangeline leaped from the bed and headed for the bathroom, calling over her shoulder, "Not if I get there first, my dear!" 

Bits of down drifted in her wake as she ran; with a muffled curse, Rhiannon started after her... 

And more giggles floated through the locked bedroom door. 

Later that evening, over a dinner of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, Lady Evangeline said mournfully, "Our day's holiday, and my indulgence of guilt, has cost us time, my dear; a precious commodity of which we have only a little." 

"Whatever do you mean?" Rhiannon put down a forkful of beef to stare at the peer. 

The dark-haired beauty drank a gulp of wine and replied, "The full moon is in three days time. On the morrow, we shall surely discover another kidnapping has occurred and we must hasten our investigations. Otherwise, I fear, there will be murder afoot, and even fouler deeds than that." 

Lady Evangeline's face held a haunted expression. 

Rhiannon went to bed that night, but found sleep elusive; even curled up next to the warm body of the woman she loved, the strawberry-blonde woman was chilled to the bone. 

I know something terrible will happen, Rhiannon thought, and shivered again as the ghostly fingers of presentiment trailed icily down her spine. 

CHAPTER TWELVE

The following morning, Rhiannon awoke alone. 

Dashing downstairs, hastily tying the belt of her amber dressing gown, the strawberry-blonde woman was somewhat surprised to find Bob the footman standing at Jackson's usual station in the dining room. 

"Bob?" Rhiannon asked, red-gold brows raised, "What on earth are you doing here? Where's Jackson? And where's Lina?" 

Bob was a tall, slender man with a puckered scar that twisted the left corner of his lip into a permanent snarl; despite his appearance, however, Bob had a gentle way about him that Rhiannon found endearing. "Per'aps you should step inter the study, Miss," he said, twitching his curly brown forelock with nervous fingers. 

Rhiannon frowned. Turning on her heel, she stomped into the study, ignoring a gawking Buttercup, the Yorkshire parlor maid. As Rhiannon flung the pocket door wide, she heard Buttercup exclaim excitedly to James, the other footman, "Coo-ee! Didjer see t' look on Missy's faice? Milady'll be in fer it when 'er gets 'ome!" 

James frantically shushed Buttercup as Rhiannon swept in the door, the skirts of her dressing gown swirling around her feet. 

The study was empty. A creamy envelope lay in the center of the desk; trembling, Rhiannon walked softly across the room, as if she feared her footsteps would bring disaster, and picked it up. 

It was addressed to her in Lina's distinctive handwriting. 

With exquisite calm, Rhiannon used a silver letter opener to slit the envelope cleanly. Then, she removed the sheets of foolscap and unfolded them, sinking down on a tufted settee to read Lady Evangeline's note. 

It read: 

"My dearest, sweetest love, 
I would never on any account have left you without a word, however, there are still some tasks I must keep from you; not because I think you untrustworthy, but simply because you lack the experience necessary to carry off some enterprises. I shall be gone most of the day and evening; quite likely I shall not return until tomorrow morning. Jackson is accompanying me, being best suited to the job at hand. Rest assured, my dear, I will come back to you and I love you. In the meantime, to occupy yourself, I would ask a favor. There is a gentleman who can be found at the Library of the British Museum; his name is Professor Amos Woolbright. Ask him, if you would, for any information he can give you on the Madman's Tarot, the Peacock Prince, and upon the subject of the Hand-of-Glory. I have every faith in you, sweetheart. 
With warmest regards, Lady Evangeline St. Claire." 

Rhiannon refolded the note and slipped it back into the envelope, staring at nothing with pale blue eyes that shimmered with hurt. I can't believe it!, the strawberry-blonde thought, she left without a goodbye, kiss-my-arse, or anything!

For long moments, Rhiannon sat on the settee like a wooden statue, the envelope and its painful contents dangling loosely from one hand. Then she roused herself with a shake. Well, she thought, at least she has entrusted me with one task she thinks I'm capable of doing!

Her chin firmed. Directly after breakfast, she said silently to herself, I'll go to the Library and find this professor. And God help him if he refuses to cooperate!

Henry, too, had defected, no doubt driving Lady Evangeline and Jackson to their unknown destination. Rhiannon took a cab to the Museum, clutching her reticule in black gloved hands. 

Professor Amos Woolbright turned out to be a somewhat vague, elf-like old man with the rounded shoulders and hunched posture of the lifelong scholar. Adjusting his round spectacles on his long nose, Woolbright looked Rhiannon up and down. 

"So, Miss Moore," he said with a smile, revealing long, horse-like yellowed teeth, "you've come to ask me some questions, eh?" The remnants of his hair, long since gone from the top of his liver-spotted head, stuck out like two bunches of fluffy wool over his prominent ears. 

Rhiannon nodded. She had donned sartorial armor for this interview: a wonderful dark red wool gown, the exact shade of ripe black cherries, with row upon row of bright gold brocade sweeping along the ruffled hem, bodice and sleeves. A black tri-corner hat with a sweeping cockade of gold and cherry feathers was been settled on her head, and Rhiannon's strawberry-blonde hair had been twisted into a trio of braids that had been looped up in the back with more ribbon and nestled charmingly against her neck. 

She was certainly the prettiest picture in the great Library that December morning; most of the other inhabitants were stick-thin or paunchy scholars, muttering to themselves in incomprehensible phrases, or absently dusting crumbs from their somber black suits while they studied massive, gilt-edged tomes. 

Professor Woolbright's smile grew broader. "Well, then, please Miss, do sit down. It's rare that a dry old man like myself has such a beautiful young visitor." 

Rhiannon perched in the wooden chair Woolbright indicated and spent a moment fussing with her skirts. She felt distinctly out of place in this hall of learning. The place was a quiet as a graveyard on a rainy night. I hope I don't make a complete ass of myself, she thought. I'd hate to have to tell Lina that I couldn't interrogate one willing old man!

"Now, what brings such a pretty little wren into the Library on a nice sunny day like today?" Woolbright's eyes, the pale amber of gold seen beneath deep clear water, sparkled with good humor. 

Rhiannon cleared her throat. "I hope you can help me, Professor. My friend, Lady Evangeline St. Claire, asked me to come here today and ask you some questions." 

"Ah!" Woolbright seemed to perk up even more. "In that case, I am more eager to help you than ever, my child. Any friend of Lady Lina's is certainly a friend of mine." 

Not for the first time, Rhiannon wondered about the scope and breadth of Lady Evangeline's seemingly endless acquaintances. I swear, that woman seems to know everyone in London!

With a start, Rhiannon realized that Woolbright was looking at her expectantly, head cocked to one side. Flushing slightly, Rhiannon drew Lina's letter from the reticule that dangled from one wrist. "I was to ask you about the Peacock Prince, the Madman's Tarot, and something called a Hand-of-Glory." 

"Ah," the professor breathed. "Rather esoteric subjects, don't you think?" 

Rhiannon shook her head, dark red feathers brushing against her forehead. "I'm not sure what to think, Professor Woolbright. I'm afraid these matters are a closed book to me." 

"Well then, my child. I'll have to see if I can provide you with the keys to open that book. Did Lady Evangeline perchance tell you my area of speciality?" 

"No. Only that I was to ask especially for you." 

Woolbright took off his spectacles and polished them against one sleeve. "I have made the occult my life's work. Oh, yes, Lady Lina knew what she was doing when she sent you here to me." 

"The occult? I'm afraid I don't understand." 

"Would it help you to know that term, 'Peacock Prince,' is another name for the Devil?" 

Rhiannon gasped, drawing disapproving looks from a pair of gentleman seated at another desk. More quietly, she asked, "You mean Lucifer?" 

"The very one. The term originated in Persia; the 'Shaitan' of the Muslim faith has his own title and nicknames, just as he does  in our Christian faith. We sometimes term him 'Old Scratch' or 'Jack Split-Foot,' so, too, do the Persians refer to Satan as the 'Peacock Prince,' possibly in the superstitious belief that to name a thing is to summon its attention to oneself." 

"I... see." Rhiannon did not understand the connection with Lina's case, but the mention of Persia intrigued her. This was the third time that country had come up, and the pretty woman could not help but wonder if the seeming 'coincidence' was anything but. 

"As to the Madman's Tarot... I believe you are looking for specific information? Not a general description or history?" 

Rhiannon explained in low tones what they already knew of the infamous deck... and the golden box it rested in. Woolbright's amber eyes brightened. 

"A box, did you say? Can you describe it in detail?" 

Rhiannon took out her notebook; she had copied the manifest's description that Katchurian had provided, preferring to transcribe her notes all at once rather than refer to numerous documents. "Yes. Let's see... solid gold, six inches high and nine inches in length. The whole of the box is covered in repousee figures of unknown origin. It is set with numerous pigeon's blood rubies, black pearls and diamonds. The feet are intricately fashioned into a bird's claws covered with diamond and ruby chips to emulate scales." 

She glanced at Woolbright; the old man's eyes were closed and his hands dangled loosely at his sides. When he spoke, Rhiannon started - she had thought he'd fallen asleep. "Anything else?," he asked. 

The pretty woman glanced at her notebook. "No... nothing else. Do you wish me to describe the cards?" 

Woolbright opened his eyes and sat up. "No. It is the box I find intriguing, not its contents. Pray, allow me to tell you a story..." 

As the old man continued speaking, Rhiannon scribbled furiously, eyes widening as Woolbright spun a tale of a prince's gift to a beloved woman... 

"So you see, my child," Woolbright concluded, "many scholars have speculated as to the whereabouts of the Madman's Tarot, and the story I have just told you has been circulating for quite some time. But your details about the box have confirmed what was mere speculation.'' 

"So, the Tarot never really disappeared... It was just... misplaced, in a strange sort of way." 

"You put it quite succinctly, Miss Moore. The story of the Tarot's disappearance after poor Nostromos' ownership is an apocryphal one. Truth to tell, it's only the collectors who are after the thing, anyway. Serious scholars look upon it as a mildly interesting artifact of a by-gone era and nothing more." 

"And what about a Hand-of-Glory?" 

"Ah." Woolbright leaned back again. "Now you come to the most curious aspect of this whole business. Are you at all familiar with witchcraft as practiced in Renaissance Europe?" 

"I'm afraid not, Professor." 

"Well, a Hand-of-Glory is tool of the black arts. A magician takes the left hand of a murderer hung for his crimes and dug up from his crossroads burial; he also removes the corpse's fat, a lock of his hair, and some coffin nails. 

"Next, after incantations and various other occult ritual, the hand is put away in salt and herbs and other nasty substances, in order to mummify it. During this lengthy process, the magician melts down the fat, along with more herbs and incantations, and makes a candle of it, using the hair as a wick. 

"At the next dark of the moon, the Hand-of-Glory is assembled. The candle is fixed to the clutching hand with a coffin nail, and the whole of it is bound with thread and pierced with thirteen silver needles. More rituals, more magical incantations, and the magician's work is complete." Woolbright's eyes had closed again. 

"But what is it used for?," Rhiannon asked, a tiny frown marring her features. 

"According to the Malleus Maleficarium - that's a grimoire, my child, a book of spells - the Hand is a thieves' tool. Once lit, and while it burns, a thief can enter a house where all within are caught in a spell of slumber. No one will wake, dogs will not bark, and he can complete his criminal business in the surety that he will not be caught. Of course, one of the side effects of the whole business is that those held by the Hand's spell will suffer nightmares of vague yet terrifying force." 

Rhiannon's red-gold brows raised nearly to her hairline. "This is fascinating," she said, remembering Katchurian's and Choi's stories of nightmares-without-waking while the kidnappers plied their trade. "Is there anything else you can tell me?" 

Woolbright smiled and opened his eyes again. "Well, I did leave out one or two details, but I'm sure you don't intend to go into the Black Arts business yourself, so it hardly matters." 

The strawberry-blonde woman returned his smile. "No, I certainly have no intention of plying my trade as a witch or magician anytime soon." 

Woolbright sat up suddenly, his face utterly serious. "See that you do not, Miss Moore. The occult is not a realm for dabblers of any kind; evil, and more than evil, can come of even the most well- meaning act. I want your promise that you will not get involved in such matters." 

Rhiannon replied, taken slightly aback, "I promise you, Professor, not to get involved with anything like what you've described." 

Woolbright patted her hand, his face wreathed in a beatific smile. "Good girl," he said approvingly. "Now, I'm sure you have better things to do than sit here and listen to an old man dodder." 

Rhiannon put her notebook away. "Oh, really, Professor," she replied anxiously, "if my presence is an imposition..." 

"Not at all!," Woolbright interrupted. "But I'm sure Lady Lina waits eagerly for your information. Have a pleasant morning, Miss Moore. And please, do come back and listen to this old man natter another time." 

Rhiannon laughed softly. "I'll come back as soon as I'm able, Professor. You've my word on it. Good day, and thank you for your time." 

Safely tucked away into a cab, being whisked back to Grosvenor Square and home, Rhiannon shivered despite the thick woolen rug tucked around her. What in the world has Lina gotten into?, she thought, fingering the notebook in the pocket of her dress. And what good is all this nonsense about witchcraft going to do her?

From somewhere deep inside herself, the pretty secretary felt she knew the answer... and she was horribly, terribly afraid. 

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The Devil's Advocate by Nene Adams (page 2)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Lady Evangeline did not return home that evening. After a scarcely tasted dinner served by an anxious Cook, and after enduring the well-intentioned hovering of the two footmen, Rhiannon felt ready to scream. 

When she'd lifted the same forkful of beef to her lips and put it back down again untasted, Rhiannon sighed. Perhaps if I were busy, she thought, the time would pass more quickly...

The clock in the study chimed one o'clock, and Rhiannon glared wearily at the silly German cuckoo who had popped from his tiny cupboard to remind her how long Lina had been gone. 

"Stupid bloody bird," she muttered and swiped at an errant lock of hair hanging over her eyes. A smudge of dirt decorated one side of her snubbed nose, and her housedress of robin's-egg blue sateen was positively covered in hanging strings of dust. 

Rhiannon had furiously transcribed her notes on the black typewriting machine that perched like a heavy steel gargoyle on a delicate-looking Louis XVI gilt secretary's desk that Lady Evangeline had installed in the study specifically for her lover and helpmeet. 

Next, she'd spent a good half-hour arranging the sheets of neatly typed foolscap into a file, then adding Katchurian's manifest, among other things, to the bulging envelope. 

The two boxes, one teak, the other common pine, from Katchurian and Choi, still sat on one corner of the peer's massive mahogany desk; Rhiannon had, despite biting curiosity, left them strictly alone. 

Then, after sitting down for a moment, Rhiannon realized how dusty the bookshelves were; nothing would do but to fetch a pail of linen rags and a bottle of lemon oil. 

After she'd found herself balanced precariously on the rolling ladder that attached to the tall, heavy shelves, absently wiping an already pristine surface, Rhiannon had decided to retire. 

That had been at midnight. Sleep, however, had fled like quicksilver between her clutching hands. She'd tossed and turned, desperately tired but unable to fall asleep. Finally, Rhiannon had gone downstairs for a cup of hot chocolate. 

Now, the weary but sleepless secretary poked a spoon into the hardened scum on top of the lukewarm chocolate and wished Lina were there so she could scream and curse, spin about like a heathen Dervish, or just fall into her strong arms and weep until her eyes were sore. 

Sometimes, she thought pensively, I love Lina so much my chest aches from the pounding of my heart. And sometimes, she makes me mad enough to want to kill her!

Rhiannon's sky blue eyes darkened. I wish she wouldn't do this. Leaving me behind all the time, as if I'm some child who has to be protected from the big, bad world. Well, I've seen a lot more of the world than she has, much of it foul and thoroughly degenerate. I can take care of myself, dammit! I don't need a nursemaid!

The unconscious echo of Holmes' protest made her smile slightly. Poor Holmes!, she thought. Now I understand how he feels when Watson makes a fuss.

Rhiannon yawned widely, then abandoned the cooled chocolate and crossed the room to lay down on the crimson velvet sofa near the fireplace. A fire crackled on the hearth; she covered herself with a fringed afghan and sighed, listening to the snap of logs being consumed by flames. 

I am like those poor bits of wood, she thought sleepily. And the fire that consumes me has a woman's face...

More quickly than she could have imagined, Rhiannon fell asleep. 

The next morning, Lina still had not arrived. Having passed through all the stages: from anxiety, worry and despair, to anger, rage and finally, complete disgust, Rhiannon sat in the seldom-used front parlor on a horsehair chesterfield, reading Varney the Vampire, a shilling-shocker she'd picked up at a bookseller's stall near the Library. 

I don't care!, she thought resentfully. Let her stay out all hours, let her come and go as she pleases, never mind me, I'm just the secretary and bed warmer around here!

Despite her ill mood, the book was incredibly diverting, filled with blood-sucking vampires, werewolves, and plenty of Gothic atmosphere. Rhiannon sat and read, completely engrossed, until the banging of the front door made her start in surprise and drop the book in her lap. 

She's home! Rhiannon rushed from the parlor, forgetting her earlier vow to remain aloof... only to confront a figure from her worst nightmares. 

Lady Evangeline was an elegant, aristocratic beauty, who, even in men's clothing, was still so incredibly handsome that gentlemen of certain inclinations had occasionally made shocking advances to her. 

The creature that stood before the astonished secretary was filthy; its face was a mask of blood and dirt from which a pair of startlingly green eyes peered out, for all the world like precious emeralds set in mud. The shirt and trousers it wore were tattered and ripped in several places, revealing white skin marked with oozing scratches and cuts. The figure staggered, supported by the arm of an equally ragged and dirty personage... and when it spoke, the scarecrow had Lina's voice. 

"Sorry, my dear," Lady Evangeline croaked, running a shaking hand across her sluggishly bleeding lip, "I meant to get cleaned up a bit before I saw you." 

Rhiannon clapped a hand to her own mouth to stifle a shriek. Then she swallowed, obviously trying to remain calm. "What happened?" she asked in a small, strained voice. 

"What did not?" Lina replied ruefully. "Truly, Rhiannon, I am heartily glad to see you. But pray, allow me first to bathe and change out of these rags before I make my explanations." 

The other figure said wearily, "Milady, I shall retire to my own quarters, if you please. Do you require assistance to negotiate the stairs?" 

"No, thank you, Jackson. I believe I can manage on my own." 

Jackson, leaning heavily on the arm of an aghast Bob, was gently led away to his own rooms, leaving Rhiannon and Lina alone. 

Lady Evangeline walked over to the stairs on legs that definitely wobbled. I am not sure I can do this after all, she thought, sitting down abruptly on the bottom stair; air rushed from her lungs, leaving her breathless and shaking. 

Rhiannon immediately hurried over. "Good God, Lina! Are you hurt? Should I call a doctor?" 

The peer waved a weary hand. "No, no, my dear. I shall be fine. Just let me catch my breath a moment..." 

Rhiannon's eyes suddenly sparkled with anger. She leaned down and placed Lina's arm over her shoulders. "Let's go," she said shortly, heaving with all her strength. 

Lina was surprised when the much smaller Rhiannon not only managed  to get her on her feet, but half carry her up the stairs and steer her towards their bedroom. 

Rhiannon plopped her lover down into a chair with gentle force and disappeared into the bathroom. When she emerged, the sound of running water could be heard coming from the room behind her. 

When Rhiannon knelt down to remove the peer's boots, Lina cleared her throat and began, "That is not necessary, my....," and stopped when she received a fierce glare from livid blue eyes. 

Well, the peer thought as her mouth closed with a click, perhaps this is not the time or place to protest. 

In short order, Rhiannon stripped Lina of her filthy rags, her lips getting tighter and tighter as each bruise, scratch and cut was revealed, although she said not a word. 

Finally, Rhiannon hauled Lina to her feet again, and dragged her into the bathroom, helping the exhausted woman climb into the steaming tub. The dark-haired peer winced as cuts opened and stung. 

"Really, Rhiannon, I think I can bathe...," Lady Evangeline began, and received another high-wattage glare from the strawberry- blonde woman's eyes. The peer, being no fool, decided to keep her mouth closed and let Rhiannon do as she would. After all, she thought, I am certain she has no intention of drowning me... yet.

Rhiannon rolled up her sleeves briskly, then picked up a sponge and a bar of the lilac-scented soap her lover preferred. Still without a word, she began to scrub Lina efficiently but with considerable care for her hurts. After a moment, Lady Evangeline relaxed, the steaming water soothing sore muscles... until Rhiannon started scrubbing her face. 

Sputtering, the peer received a mouthful of bitter suds and subsided, carefully squeezing her eyes shut. It was becoming rapidly obvious that Rhiannon was very put out about something, and Lina was not quite ready to defy her suddenly aggressive lover. 

"Sit still," Rhiannon said, the sound of her voice almost shocking after so much silence. "I need to drain this water, then I'll run some more into the tub." 

The filthy water drained away, leaving Lina shivering with cold; but quickly, the claw-footed tub was full again, and the air in the bathroom filled with swirling billows of steam. 

After washing Lina's hair twice, and scrubbing her yet again to make sure there were no lingering particles of dirt lurking in unsuspecting crevices, Rhiannon got her lover dried, into a clean nightshirt, and tucked into bed. 

Throughout this process, Lady Evangeline had been uncharacteristically quiet. Normally, she would not have allowed anyone to see her so vulnerable but she trusted Rhiannon and hoped she could stay awake long enough to find out what the Devil was wrong. 

Rhiannon made to leave, her sateen housegown soaked down the front. The dark-haired peer stopped her with a word. "Please?" she said, and nothing more. 

Silently, Rhiannon walked over to the bed, untying the belt around her robe, and let it fall to the floor. Beneath, she wore a simple cotton nightgown, edged with eyelet lace and tiny silk rosebuds. It, too, was soaked, and Lady Evangeline sucked in her breath. 

Dear Lord!, Lina thought, seeing Rhiannon's rosy nipples clearly through the shift, the way it clings to her is somehow more indecent than mere nudity! And despite her exhausted state, the peer's desire began to rise... especially when she glanced down and noticed how the other woman's fiery thatch seemed to glow like distant embers against the thin cotton shield. 

Rhiannon, much to Lina's disappointment, shrugged out of the gown, slipping naked into bed. The smaller woman fitted herself carefully to her lover's body, trying to avoid hurting her. 

Lady Evangeline sighed, feeling Rhiannon's warm skin, a small hand clutching her own. "Now, my dear," the dark-haired peer said, "Do you wish to know what I have been doing for a day and a night and another day?" 

"No. Go to sleep." 

Somewhat surprised, Lina said, "I have rested adequately, and the excellence of your ablutions had refreshed me wonderfully. I can stay awake a while longer." 

Rhiannon put up her free hand and gently covered the peer's mouth. "I said no, Lina. I don't want to discuss it right now. Just go to sleep; we'll talk later." 

"But...," came the muffled protest. "I don't..." 

Rhiannon stopped Lina with another glare. "Lina, I'm tired, too. I haven't been sleeping well these last few days and I could use a nap. So go to sleep or I'll borrow Jackson's cudgel and bloody well beat you into unconsciousness!" 

Lady Evangeline's green eyes widened over the gag of Rhiannon's hand. She nodded once... carefully. 

Rhiannon took her hand away and closed her own eyes, inhaling the scent of Lina's skin. With a sigh of contentment, the smaller woman drifted off to sleep, mentally snickering at the pole-axed expression on Lina's beautiful face. 

Just before sleep claimed her, Rhiannon thought: I'll bet she never realized that explosives come in small packages, too.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Later that afternoon, Lady Evangeline reclined on the sofa in her study, smoking a cigarette. Rhiannon had seated herself in the chair opposite the peer's position; Lina was at first surprised by her lover's dress, then realized that Rhiannon wore it as a deliberate statement - of independence, and possibly defiance. 

It was the threadbare blue velvet dress she'd worn when she was a prostitute, plying her trade beneath the gaslight of Whitechapel. Cut scandalously low and considerably worse for wear though clean, it was one of the few remembrances from her past Rhiannon had brought with her when she'd moved into the house on Grosvenor Square to become Lina's secretary. 

The dark-haired peer shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. I have a feeling, she thought, that proceedings are about to become a tad unpleasant.

Rhiannon fiddled with a fold of her dress, then raised sky blue eyes that captured Lina's own. "I have something to say, Lina. I'm sure you aren't going to like it, but I'm going to say it anyway." 

Lady Evangeline sighed. "As you will, my dear." 

Rhiannon cleared her throat. "Your absence gave me some time for thought, Lina. And I've come to a decision." 

The peer sighed again, and closed her eyes, trying to mentally command her heart to start beating again. Tears were forming beneath her closed eyelids; she waited breathlessly, certain that Rhiannon was going to tell her that it had all been a terrible mistake, that she was going back to Whitechapel, that she had no use for Lina anymore.

And if she does, Lady Evangeline thought, I shall surely die.

Rhiannon continued flatly, "Look at me." 

Obediently, though reluctantly, Lina opened her eyes. 

Rhiannon nodded. "Now, do I look like a child to you? Or a half-wit? Or one of those silly little women whose biggest decision of the day is which gown to wear?" 

Lina shook her head, green eyes dark with agony. 

"Good." Rhiannon's expression was as cold as steel. "Since I am none of those things, but a woman who is just as strong and capable as you are, Lady St. Claire, I have only one more thing to say: If you ever leave me like that again - without discussing your plans or telling me anything at all - leaving me behind to wring my hands like a feather-headed heroine in a fairy tale - I will leave you." 

Tears trickled down Lina's face, but when she opened her mouth to speak, Rhiannon raised her hand for silence. 

"You've told me that you loved me, over and over again. You've showered me with gifts, made a place for me in your home, and I'm grateful for everything you've done for me. But I am not a toy. Nor am I some sort of pet. As much as I love you, Lina, I won't be treated that way. I've had enough of that in my lifetime, and if that's what you think of me, then perhaps I should go." 

"Rhiannon! Have I been treating you so abominably?" 

"Yes. Either we have a partnership of equals or nothing at all. There are a good many things you can do that I can't - but there are some skills I have that you don't, milady. I'm not asking that you drag me everywhere as if I were your shadow; all I ask is some consideration on your part. Perhaps if I'd accompanied you yesterday, you and Jackson wouldn't have gotten hurt." Rhiannon shrugged, continuing, "But I suppose we'll never know that, will we?" 

Lady Evangeline was shocked to the core. Really, she thought, have I been that bad? Then, she recalled incidents when she had casually issued orders, or assumed obedience on Rhiannon's part, in a cavalier manner which she now found absolutely appalling.

"Oh, God, Rhiannon! I have been behaving like an ass!," Lina groaned. Rising, she flicked her cigarette into the fireplace and slid to the floor, kneeling at Rhiannon's feet. Taking one of Rhiannon's hands between both of her own, the ebony-haired woman said, "I apologize, sweetheart. You are right - I have been acting like a veritable tyrant, rapping out orders and expecting to be obeyed, when I have no right." 

Rhiannon's eyes darkened a little. "Lina, I meant what I said. If you do that to me again, I will leave you. I can't live like that." 

Lina bowed her neck until her forehead rested on the knuckles of Rhiannon's hands. "There is no excuse for my behavior, so I shall not offer one. Please, my love, if I start behaving like London's worst prig again, beat me over the head with a blunt object until you get my attention. I never meant to hurt you..." 

"I know. That's the only reason I stayed." A little smile touched Rhiannon's lips. "It's just that I love you too much to let you bully me, Lina. I will, of course, bow to your superior experience in certain matters, but I expect to have some say in things." 

"You are absolutely right. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa!" Lina raised her head. Her hair, loosened from its pins, cascaded in inky waves across her broad shoulders. "I cannot apologize enough. You are so very dear to me that the thought of you placing yourself in injury's path is enough to make me want to lock you up and throw away the key! But, you have my word: If you wish to involve yourself more fully in my work, I shall not stop you. And I shall make every effort to see that you are kept as informed as possible of my doings." 

"Thank you, Lina. I'm just asking you not to keep things from me. Let me make my own decisions once in a while - I've been around the block a time or two myself, and I'm hardly an innocent girl." 

"I know." Lina gave her lover a lopsided grin. "And believe me, my dear, that is but one of your more charming aspects." 

Rhiannon leaned forward; sliding her hands from Lina's grasp, she placed them on the other woman's face, feeling the smooth skin and the shape of the bones beneath with her palms. "I love you," she breathed, then caught the other woman's lips with her own; at first tenderly, then with growing passion. 

Lady Evangeline suppressed a wince; her lips was still very sore, but she was damned if she was going to protest. When the kiss ended, Rhiannon drew back and exclaimed, "Lina! Your lip! Why on earth didn't you say something?" 

The peer dabbed ruefully at the sluggishly bleeding cut. "It's quite all right, dearheart. I shan't bleed to death just yet." 

Rhiannon started to get angry, then chuckled. "What am I going to do with you, Lady St. Claire?" 

Lina stood, biting back a groan. "To begin with, you can help me eat some of Cook's excellent lunch. Afterwards, I shall tell you all about my adventures and you can regale me with your own." 

Rhiannon looked down at her dress. "Should I change, do you think?" 

Lina leaned over, back muscles protesting, and planted a kiss on a sliver of dark pink nipple that peeped over the top of Rhiannon's tight bodice. "Not on my account, love. However, unless you intend to give the servants a thrill..." 

"You're right. Go ahead and start without me. I'll just pop upstairs and put on something else, then I'll join you." 

The larger woman looked down at Rhiannon, ebony brows raised. "Are you sure you do not require help with your laces and fastenings? I make a fairly decent ladies' maid, you know." She waggled her eyebrows and gave a comic leer. 

Rhiannon giggled. "Not unless you want Cook to really give notice this time. I think that poor woman's never been so infuriated, and if we're late for lunch, I shudder to think what she'll say." 

Lina rolled her emerald eyes. "The imagination boggles. Very well, my dear. I will wait in the dining room like a good girl, and if Bob asks why I have steam issuing from my ears, I shall tell him 'tis because my lover has aroused my passions and the coquette has refused to requite me." 

Rhiannon giggled again, and the two women walked arm in arm out of the study. 

Bob, James, Buttercup and the now clean Jackson nearly fell into a tangled heap removing their ears from the door. 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Rhiannon had told Lina about Professor Woolbright's explanations of the Peacock Prince, the Hand-of-Glory, and was now telling her about the Madman's Tarot. "It seems that there have been rumors for years that the Tarot was purchased secretly by one of the Shahs of Persi, as a gift for his Chief Wife, who supposedly had oracular visions. When I described the box to him, Woolbright claimed it was confirmation of his suspicions." 

"I see." Abruptly, Lina stood, pushing her chair back. "Come upstairs with me, my dear. The time has come for me to reveal certain things to you." 

Rhiannon crumpled her napkin and allowed the peer to pull her own chair back. Rising gracefully, she brushed a few crumbs from the skirt of the dark blue gown she wore. "All right." Then her pale blue eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What do you mean, certain things?," she asked. 

"Just come upstairs, Rhiannon. I shall explain in private." 

Attached to the master bedroom was a small sitting room, which Rhiannon had, at Lina's insistence, decorated to her own liking. The walls were covered in pale green brocade, furniture delicate and gilded; a pair of framed paintings hung on the wall - purchased in Paris by the strawberry-blonde woman when she and Lina had visited that city a month ago. 

She'd found them in Montmartre - the Bohemian district where artists gathered to sip absinthe and smoke foul cigars while sketching the passers-by and offering their own works for sale on every sidewalk. The paintings were hallucinogenic swirls of lavender, pink, green and blue created by the artist Monet, and Rhiannon never tired of looking at them. 

"Very well, Lina," Rhiannon said, as the peer stretched her long length on the pastel upholstered 'fainting couch', "I hope you're going to explain your remark about 'certain things."' 

Lady Evangeline said nothing yet; she merely pulled Rhiannon on top of her, spreading her legs so the other woman's body rested comfortably between her thighs, Rhiannon's head nestled between the peer's breasts. "There. That's much better," Lina sighed. "Please understand, my dear... I simply cannot reveal all to you just yet. My theories require one or two more facts before they are fully formulated; like Holmes, I am loath to explain too quickly too soon, lest I should be proved wrong." 

"All right. I can understand that, though I'm burning with curiosity. Tell me what you were up to while I was at the Library, then." 

Lina rested her hands against the small of Rhiannon's warm back. "I went out specifically to find Sir James Escott, also known as Culverton - the man who threatened Katchurian. 

"Jackson and I located him in a seedy tavern in Cheapside. The gentleman, if you care to call him that, proved to be upstairs, sleeping off the previous evening's bacchanalia in a prostitute's arms. I sent the lady away with a purse of silver - and a demand for privacy - then we were left alone with the still snoring Escott. 

"Escott proved most reluctant to answer our questions." Lady Evangeline broke off with another sigh. "I'm afraid I had no time for polite inquiry, Rhiannon; the methods I employed were fairly direct." 

Rhiannon shivered and felt her lover's hands on her back, soothing her. "I don't think I want any details." 

The dark-haired peer smiled slightly. "Well, I see there are yet some things about me you do not wish to know. Suffice it to say, I did Escott no permanent damage, save perhaps to his ego. After sorting through the dross of his confession, I did come up with a few bits of gold. 

"Escott is a member of the Hellfire Club; in fact, he considers himself the leader's right hand man. The head of the Club styles himself 'Lord Blacksin' - and since he always goes about masked, his identity remains a secret even from his most loyal followers. 

"But Escott has another employer, a man of mystery who pays him well to perform little tasks requiring brute force and low cunning. This anonymous person contacts him only by letter, received at a mail drop; Escott responds the following way. Whenever his employer wishes to contact him, he places a notice in the Agony Columns of the Times. And Escott does the same when he needs to get in touch with the Mystery Man.

"I bullied the location of the mail drop from Escott and instructed him to place the notice and write a letter to the Mystery Man asking for further instructions regarding Katchurian. He was more than happy to comply. Despite his high station, my dear, Escott is nothing more than a bit of cowardly low trash; we left him shivering and weeping in fear." 

Rhiannon raised her head to look directly into Lina's face. "Did he hurt you, Lina? Is that how you both got so terribly dirty?" 

"No, my dear. That came later. First, Jackson and I scouted out the address Escott had given us, a small chemist's shop where, for a fee, the proprietor will receive mail and hold it for the recipient. A bribe has ensured that man's cooperation with my plan - I intend to be there when our Mystery Man makes his next appearance." 

Rhiannon narrowed her eyes. "More midnight excursions, Lina? Will you be leaving me again so soon?" 

Lady Evangeline tightened her grip on the other woman's waist. "My dear, if you wish to accompany me, I shall do my utmost to ensure your safety. However... well, you have no real experience in trailing suspects, Rhiannon. And we have no time for you to learn." 

The strawberry-blonde woman sighed and laid her head back down, comforted by the sound of Lina's heartbeat in her ear. "I don't like it, but I concede your point. I'll play Penelope again, waiting for valiant Ulysses to return; but I expect you to begin some kind of training program so I can be of more use to you." 

"Of course, dearheart. As soon as this case is finished, I will see to it. To continue my story: the Persian aspects of this case intrigued me. Time and time again, that country has popped up like the demon king in a pantomime. So I thought to consult with Mycroft Holmes; accordingly, Jackson and I presented ourselves at the Diogenes Club." 

"But they don't allow women, do they?" 

"No, they do not. They do not allow talking, either, except within the Stranger's Room. However, they do not know me there, and a mention of his brother's name was sufficient to persuade Mr. Holmes to permit me to enter." 

Lady Evangeline paused. Mycroft Holmes possessed a formidable intelligence and despite his bulk, the man moved with the unthinking grace of a stalking lion. "Mr. Holmes proved most interested. He told me in confidence that certain members of Her Majesty's government were working to remove those members of the Hellfire Club with ties to the Queen; that having been done, the Club would be closed down and arrests made. 

"However, his information on Persia proved invaluable. It seemed that my memory was correct; eleven years ago, the Nassered-Din, Shah of Persia, did indeed stay in Buckingham Palace. As the Queen rarely lives there, preferring to dwell in Balmoral Castle with the ghost of her beloved Albert, the Palace is often used to house foreign dignitaries. 

"The Shah brought with him an extensive entourage, including several of his wives and numerous concubines. One of those concubines was a lovely young woman named Kitri - whom I have concluded was Naga's long lost sister." 

"You mean, the herm... herm..." Rhiannon struggled but the word was unfamiliar. 

"Yes, my dear. The missing hermaphrodite employed by Mrs. Choi. Kitri was her sister, and it was Kitri's influence with the Shah that allowed Naga to come to this country. Imagine my surprise when Mycroft revealed to me a hideous scandal connected with the Shah's visit that nearly brought foreign relations to a halt." 

"What was it?" 

"It appeared that Kitri had fallen in love with one of the Guards, a handsome, dashing rotter named Christopher Phelps. Corporal Phelps was a rogue; he knew Kitri had access to some of the Shah's treasures and he wooed that young woman in the hopes of getting her to pilfer something he could sell to pay off his debts. 

"One night, according to Mycroft, Kitri met Phelps in the garden behind the Palace, bringing with her the Shah's chief treasure. Phelps was, of course, more interested in what Kitri carried than in the woman herself. However, neither of the pair reckoned on the Shah's suspicious nature. He had suspected Kitri of disobedience and spies watched their every move. 

"Before Phelps could take full possession of the treasure, the Shah's guards burst from the bushes, fully armed and prepared to kill. Phelps fled like the coward that he was, dropping what he had taken in his haste to get away." 

"What happened to Kitri?" 

"As is normally the case with unfaithful concubines, my dear, she was strangled with a bowstring." 

"How horrible!" Rhiannon exclaimed, shuddering. 

"Yes. Her body was buried on the grounds. Phelps' part in the whole sordid affair was hushed up but he was cashiered, discharged without honor and his reputation ruined. It is believed he fled for the Continent one step ahead of his creditors, but no one has seen him since." 

"But what has this to do with your condition this morning?" 

"Ah. Now you come to the meat of it. Last night Jackson and I made a foray into the grounds of Buckingham Palace, seeking a young girl's grave." 

"What?! Whyever for?" 

"That question is one I cannot answer at this time, Rhiannon. I am sorry, my dear, but I did warn you I was not yet ready to reveal all." 

Rhiannon was slightly miffed, but controlled herself. Sometimes, she thought, Lina's worse than one of Mr. Haggard's books. I think she truly enjoys the drama of the whole thing more than solving the puzzle itself.

"You're right, Lina," Rhiannon said reluctantly. "You warned me. Go ahead; tell me what you can." 

Lady Evangeline smiled. "I promise, when the time comes, you shall be the first to hear my entire theory. Well, then, my dear: Jackson and I spent some time scaling the walls, avoiding the guards, etc. All under the light of the moon and a burglar's dark-lantern. It was quite thrilling, you understand. 

"We soon located the gravesite, according to Mycroft's instructions. We spent some little time digging; the rest of the time was spent hiding from patrolling guards and flinching every time an owl hooted overhead. But we soon found what we were looking for, and just in time, too. Because at that moment, one of those bloody guards decided to take time away from his rounds to light a fag and spotted us." 

Lina smiled at Rhiannon's gasp. "Needless to say," she continued, "We wasted no time in fleeing the scene. Of course, we were forced to leave the lantern behind, and blundered into rose bushes, statuary and miscellaneous benches and what-not in the dark. Just at the moment when the guards were hot on our heels and I felt arrest imminent, an explosion came from somewhere to the east of our position. Immediately, most of the guards ceased their pursuit and left in the new direction; I was able, with Jackson's help, to subdue the remainder without causing too many injuries." 

Rhiannon looked at her lover with wide blue eyes. "You broke into Buckingham Palace? Lina, it's a wonder you weren't shot!" 

"You are absolutely correct, my dear. I think, since the Queen is not in residence, that discipline amongst the Royal Guard has become somewhat lax. Not one of those boobies thought to discharge his weapon - which was a bit of good luck for me, not to mention poor Jackson, who is really getting too old to dodge bullets." 

"But why? What was it about Kitri's body that was so important? Surely, after Mycroft told you the story of her demise..." 

"It was not her body I was after, Rhiannon. I suspected something else had been buried with her and I was right." The peer was silent after that remark. 

Rhiannon waited a moment before replying, "Is this one of the things you can't tell me yet?" 

"I am afraid so. A case is like a tapestry, Rhiannon. One acquires the clues thread by thread and weaves them together into a solution. Last night's adventure provided me with several threads and some confirmation of certain suspicions I have - but the case is not yet complete. Not until I know the identity of the Mystery Man." 

"This thing you found with Kitri's body... do you have it now?" 

"I do. It is locked within the downstairs safe. I know you are no Bluebeard's wife, my dear - I can trust you to contain your curiosity." 

Rhiannon scowled. "I hate it when you do that, Lina - appeal to my good nature. Now you know I'll never peek into the safe, even if it were on fire." 

Lina chuckled. "I know you very well indeed, Rhiannon Moore. And the more I get to know, the greater my love for you grows." 

They lay together on the couch, each woman content with each other's presence. Finally, Rhiannon's wondering about other matters began to burn. "Lina? Can you tell me what was in those boxes you got from Mr. Katchurian and Mrs. Choi?" 

Rhiannon gasped as Lina's strong hands bit into the flesh of her shoulders; immediately, the peer relaxed her grip. "I apologize, my dear," Lina said contritely, "I did not mean to hurt you. The contents of those boxes is the connection between Katchurian and the Hellfire Club, the disappearances, and everything." 

"Can you tell me what's in them?" 

Lady Evangeline sighed heavily. "I can do better than that, dearheart. I shall show you."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"Ugh! What happened?" 

Lady Evangeline stopped waving the crystal bottle of smelling salts beneath Rhiannon's nose. "You fainted, my dear. I tried to warn you that the sight would be fairly gruesome." 

"But I refused to listen. Good Lord, Lina! Please put the stopper on that foul bottle and help me up!" Rhiannon struggled to rise; she lay on the floor, her head pillowed on Lina's knees. 

The peer chuckled, adjusting her position and slipping one strong arm under Rhiannon's shoulders, the other behind her knees. With a slight grunt, Lina rose with her burden and carried the other woman over to the sofa. 

Laying her down, Lina sat next to Rhiannon and asked anxiously, "Are you feeling quite all right, my dear? Would some brandy help?" 

Rhiannon wasn't sure if her still quivering stomach would tolerate brandy, but she nodded. "Please." If anything, she thought, the stuff will make my head stop spinning. Lady Evangeline quickly returned with a snifter containing an inch of golden-brown liquid and Rhiannon took it with a shaking hand. 

Lina laughed as Rhiannon screwed her eyes up at the taste of the brandy. "You look for all the world like a child taking cod liver oil!" she hooted. "Really, Rhiannon, that is the finest French cognac and you act as if it were nasty medicine!" 

Finished, Rhiannon laid the snifter aside with a shudder. "You might like all that fancy stuff, Lina, but my tastes run more to beer and wine than liquors." 

"Feeling better?" 

Rhiannon thought about it, and, oddly enough, she was. The brandy had burned like the Devil going down, but now her stomach glowed warmly. "Yes, much. Now, please tell me what those - things - were." 

Lina sat back down. Her paisley silk smoking jacket gaped at the bosom, revealing considerably more of her breasts than was proper, but the peer didn't notice. She had eyes only for her lover. "You should know, my dear. You yourself brought the description for their creation and use back from the Library." 

"You mean... that's a Hand-of-Glory?" 

"Precisely. It is not curious that both Katchurian and Choi should receive such heinous gifts from unknown villains?" 

Rhiannon thought furiously. "If both Katchurian and Choi got those, and since the Hellfire Club is notorious for black magic ritual, it stands to reason that the kidnappings and the threats against Mr. Katchurian come from the same source." 

Lina clapped her hands together and crowed, "Marvelous, my dear! Simply marvelous! I could not have stated it better myself!" 

Rhiannon flushed. "So that means that the Club, or Lord Blacksin, is after the Madman's Tarot." 

"Precisely. Or something else, possibly, but we shan't go into that now. I am very proud of you, Rhiannon. If Holmes were here, he would applaud you as well." 

"Speaking of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, why didn't he tell you about those Hands? I remember he hinted about a connection when we saw him." 

"As to that, my dear, I believe that Holmes was exercising his discretion. After all, this is my case, not his, and between detectives, it is considered impolite in the extreme to meddle where you have not been invited. It may also be," Lina continued thoughtfully, "that he wished to test my acumen by forcing me to discover it myself." 

"That sounds like Mr. Holmes to me." 

"And to me as well. Now, we have uncovered a sinister plot, made even more sinister by yet another thread." 

"What is that?" 

"I took the liberty yesterday of paying a call upon the gentleman whom Katchurian sold the box and cards to. He showed me what he had purchased, but was reluctant to answer my questions." 

"But why is this a thread?" 

Lady Evangeline's face grew stony. "He was a pompous popinjay, my dear. All frills and flutters. It was what he did not tell me that I found intriguing." 

Rhiannon was perplexed. "What do you mean?" she asked. 

Lina patted her hand. "Never mind, my dear. I shall tell you when the time comes to present the woven conclusion to the authorities." 

Rhiannon snorted. "You ask a great deal of my patience, Lina. Perhaps I'll resort to more nefarious means to make you divulge your information." 

Lina's emerald green eyes glowed. "And just what would those methods be, my dear?" she asked mischievously. 

"I have my own interrogation techniques, you know," Rhiannon replied, then sat up. 

Lady Evangeline drew breath sharply as Rhiannon unfastened the buttons of her gown with nimble fingers and slipped it from her creamy shoulders to puddle around her hips. "See anything you like," Rhiannon asked, red-gold brows raised. 

Lina's mouth was dry. "Hmmmm...," she purred, beginning to enjoy this game, "Let me see..." The taller woman reached out one hand and cupped one of Rhiannon's firm breasts, feeling the nipple swell in her palm. "Adequate, I suppose." 

Rhiannon's shoulder shook with suppressed laughter, making the breast in Lina's hand jiggle a little. "Adequate?" she asked archly. "Then how do you feel about this?" 

She took Lina's other hand and placed it against the juncture of her thighs. The sight of her strong fingers nestled against Rhiannon's fiery thatch made Lina's growl deeply, "Um...the color is quite extraordinary." 

"Thank you." Rhiannon leaned forward a little. "Anything else you'd like to tell me?" 

With a moan, Lina fastened her mouth to Rhiannon's shoulder, kissing the scar left by Jack the Ripper's knife. "You have undone me, milady," Lina moaned against Rhiannon's soft flesh, "I have no defenses; my walls are breached, my armies disarrayed, and I surrender to your charms." 

Rhiannon laughed throatily. Reaching out, she pulled Lina's smoking jacket from the peer's own broad shoulders, running her hands along the thick muscles of the other woman's back. "Is your surrender unconditional?," the strawberry-blonde woman asked, then broke off with a moan of her own as Lina's lips found their way to her throat and the peer's fingers began exploring... 

"Oh, yes, my dear," Lina murmured, "And I intend to surrender again and again and again, all afternoon long..." 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The next two days passed with agonizing slowness. Lady Evangeline grew increasingly short tempered at the delay and was frequently heard to call curses down on Escott's head. When the Times notice appeared on the third morning, the entire household breathed a sigh of relief. 

Rhiannon took it all in stride, almost smug as she reveled in having the peer all to herself with only a few distractions. At least, she's not creeping off in the middle of the night to do God-knows-what with God-knows-who, Rhiannon thought. I think I can stand it when she snarls and snaps; it's when she gets all quiet and broody that my blood runs cold.

The pretty secretary lured her lover out into the snow-covered landscape of London, insisting on rides in the Park, shopping expeditions, and even a night at the opera. For Rhiannon's sake, Lady Evangeline gave every appearance of enjoyment, although she inwardly fumed at every delay. 

"By God!" the peer had exclaimed one night when the two women were snuggled together in their warm bed, "I think I would much rather confront an entire regiment of white slavers with a kitchen spoon than sit about twiddling my thumbs." 

Rhiannon had silenced her with a kiss - and Lina allowed herself to be distracted again. 

The night after the notice's appearance, Lady Evangeline was ready for action. "I heard from the chemist that the Mystery Man always picks his mail up at around eleven o'clock. I shall be lurking nearby; when he leaves, the chemist has promised to give me a signal so I shall know whom I am following." 

Rhiannon bit her lower lip. "Please, Lina. Promise me you'll be careful." 

Lina looked down at the other woman. "I promise, my dear. I shall be the soul of discretion." She bent down to place a gentle kiss on Rhiannon's lips, ignoring Jackson's harrumph of warning as he entered the room, eyes discreetly averted. 

"Your cloak, milady." At armslength, Jackson held a ragged woolen cloak, heavily patched and reeking of cheap rosewater. 

"Well? How do I look?" Lady Evangeline turned in place, arms held out. 

Rhiannon giggled. The peer had dressed with care for her excursion into Cheapside. She wore a vivid crimson dress of heavy wool, stained and badly darned in places; frills of black lace hung limply on her bosom. The neckline was cut as low as Rhiannon's own blue velvet gown; Lina's magnificent breasts bulged from the top like globes of blue-veined alabaster. 

A pair of stout black boots, reinforced at the toe with steel plates, had been artistically "aged" - more than a decade old in appearance but in reality, quite new. Lina had put cosmetics to good use as well; she appeared to be a raddled old whore with a bright red gin nose, haggard eyes and a wart on her chin. 

"Brrrrrrrr!" Rhiannon said with a shiver. "Where on earth did you find that horrible wig?" 

The wig resembled a nest of badly spun straw and bits of it hung around Lina's shoulders, crackling dryly as she moved. "I borrowed it from Holmes. Do you like it? I thought it added an air of verisimilitude." 

"It looks genuine, alright! Just remember to drop your 'aitches' and not to look down your aristocratic nose at people." 

Lina looked offended. "Teach your grandmother to suck eggs, Rhiannon Moore! I learned at a master's feet; even I could not recognize Holmes in one of his clever disguises unless he allowed it." 

Rhiannon giggled. "Do you have your pistol?" 

Lady Evangeline reached into her bodice and produced the article. "Right here, mother. It is loaded, and I have extra bullets." 

Rhiannon wondered privately how Lina managed to secrete anything the size of her revolver into the bodice of that tight red dress, considering how well filled it was already. "I'll stop fussing now, before you accuse me of being an old hen." 

Lina's emerald green eyes stared down at her from a stranger's face. "I find your concern touching, my dear. Now, on to Cheapside!" Taking the cloak from Jackson's grasp, she swirled it around her shoulders theatrically. 

As the cloak settled, an abrupt transformation came over the peer. Suddenly, instead of a tall, lean, elegantly beautiful woman of obvious station and bearing, an old whore cackled in the front hall, looking as out of place as a dog dropping on a Sevres plate. 

"Heh, heh, heh, dearie!" the old woman said, showing several gaps in her grin (a trick Holmes had taught her using actor's props). "Care fer a bit o' the ol' 'ammer an' tongs, me lord? Only a shillin' an' it's noice an' fillin'!" 

Jackson shuddered while Rhiannon burst out laughing, clapping her hands together in delight. "That's marvelous, Lina! I say, the world lost a great actress when you declined to take the stage!" 

Lina swept her a bow, averting to her normal self. "Many thanks for the compliments, my dear. Now, I really must be going. Take good care of her, Jackson. I rely on you." 

Jackson bowed his head in acknowledgment. "Yes, milady. We shall take the utmost care of Miss Rhiannon while you are away." 

As Lina stumped out into the night, having re-donned her whore's mannerisms, Rhiannon could not help but feel uneasy. Something bad was going to happen... she felt it in her very bones. 

The delicate Meissen clock in the bedroom had just chimed twice when Rhiannon was awakened by a discreet rap on the door. 

"Yes?" she called, sitting up and rubbing sleep out of her eyes. She had been plagued with nightmares; foul dreams of Lina's body lying on a cold marble slab... 

Jackson entered, his normally placid face filled with dismay. "You'd better come downstairs right away, Miss. I'm afraid something's happened to milady." 

Instantly awake, Rhiannon scrambled out of bed, heedless of her state of undress. When Jackson blushed hotly, she grabbed a sheet and wrapped it around her nakedness with an impatient snort. "What's happened?" she asked, eyes burning. 

Jackson winced. "Milady told me she would be using Mr. Holmes' Baker Street Irregulars to convey regular messages as to her whereabouts. This was to ensure you did not worry excessively." He stopped and gulped when Rhiannon took a step forward, the expression on her face frightful enough to stop a raging bull in its tracks. 

He continued, "One of the Irregulars came to the door a few moments ago. I'm afraid Lady Evangeline has been kidnapped." 

Jackson was forced to move aside adroitly to avoid being run over by the frantic Rhiannon. 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Rhiannon's eyes glowed with a clear, cold fire, as incandescent as the heart of a candle flame. After hearing the ragamuffin child's story, she had dismissed him with instructions to have the news conveyed immediately to Baker Street. When the child answered that this had already been done - and on Mr. Holmes' orders - she had nodded absently and sent him on his way clutching a coin. 

Now, she stood in the bedroom, arrayed as if for battle. She had dismissed the idea of wearing one of her own dresses; although comfortable, they did not provide enough freedom of movement. 

Instead, she had prevailed upon James the footman, who was a small man about her own size, to part with a pair of trousers and a shirt. Rhiannon had bound her breasts with strips of linen, ignoring the pain. Lina was in danger - this was the sole thought that dominated all other considerations. 

Jackson appeared in the doorway, dressed completely in black. "Mr. Holmes has arrived, Miss. And he has Dr. Watson with him." 

For a moment, Rhiannon was surprised. I could have sworn there was no love lost between the doctor and Lina, she thought, but perhaps he comes on Holmes' account.

"I'll be with them in a moment, Jackson," she replied shortly. 

Finishing her toilette, Rhiannon surveyed herself in the mirror and nodded with satisfaction, running one hand over the top of her head to make sure her hair was fastened tightly. Then snatching up the dainty mother-of-pearl pistol that had been Holmes' Christmas gift, she squared her shoulders and marched downstairs. 

Arriving in the sitting room, Rhiannon drew a deep breath. "Gentleman," she said, "I trust you've heard the news." 

Holmes stood, dark gray eyes filled with concern. "My dear Miss Rhiannon, I cannot tell you how sorry I am..." 

Rhiannon stopped him with a gesture. "Don't speak to me of sorrows, Mr. Holmes. Just tell me how we'll get Lina back safely." 

"Quite right." Holmes sat back down and exchanged a glance with Watson. "We must first examine the crime scene. The Irregular who brought me the news of Lina's abduction also provided me with its location. I hope to be able to deduce the kidnapper's direction from clues on the site." He paused, then continued more gently, "And also to ascertain the severity of Lina's injuries." 

Rhiannon paused while she struggled to breathe. The thought of her lover lying somewhere, injured and alone, was almost more than she could bear. Holmes rose and crossed to her, looking down into her stricken face. 

Carefully, the detective put his arms around the pretty woman's shoulders and pulled her to his chest. "It will be all right, Miss Rhiannon. She is my friend as well; I assure you, I shall do everything within my power to see her returned, alive and well." 

Rhiannon bit her lower lip until it bled, forcing back tears. Pulling away from Holmes, she swiped her hand across her eyes and said roughly, "I hope so, Mr. Holmes. Otherwise, you'll have to arrange for a double burial." 

Dr. Watson started to protest this admission, but Holmes waved him into silence. "You have my word, Rhiannon," the saturnine detective said seriously. 

Turning away from Rhiannon, Holmes said, "Now. A hired carriage waits outside; we had better go..." but the detective was interrupted by several more figures entering the room. 

Henry, Bob and James pushed themselves forward. "You've no need to be using a hired cab, sir," Henry said forcefully, "I'll drive you myself. And fight, too, if needs be." The coachman brandished a spiked cudgel; before entering Lina's employ, Henry had been an enforcer for a loan shark in Southwark. 

"Sir," Bob said, "Me an' James 'ere, we'll be goin', too. We're useful in a scrap, an' neither one of us is afraid a' nothin'. Sir." Bob tugged his forelock respectfully, but his thick, scarred knuckles were wrapped in cotton rags which concealed the thin but heavy steel chains entwining his fingers. 

The silent James wore a bandolier of throwing daggers slung across his chest and another pair of knife hilts glittered from the tops of his boots; it was obvious the rat-faced little man was ready for action. Both footmen had been hired killers in their former lives; Lina's attentions had saved them from the gallows and the men were willing to die for her if necessary. 

Rhiannon's eyes filled with tears. "If Cook comes in brandishing a cleaver, I swear I'll start to cry," she said. 

Holmes put a comforting arm around her shoulders and looked at the three servants. "You are very welcome, gentlemen," he said formally. "I am certain we shall require your assistance during tonight's proceedings. Come, Rhiannon," he cried dramatically, "the game's afoot!" 

In her kitchen, Cook was muttering to a weeping Buttercup, "There, there, luv," the enormous woman said with a touch of asperity, "Oi'm sure t' fellows'll invoite you ter play next toime!" Cook herself was furious; her arguments to the redoubtable Jackson to allow her to accompany Miss Rhiannon had fallen on deaf ears. 

Buttercup sobbed into her tea as the band of rescuers sped into the snow-filled night. 

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The chemist's shop was a grubby little building with filthy, fly-specked windows. One of Holmes' Irregulars, a nine-year old boy with a gamine's grin and ancient eyes led them to the alley where Lina's abduction had occurred. 

Holmes spent considerable time going over the alley inch by inch, sometimes on his knees with his nose nearly touching the ground. By the time he'd finished, his trousers were beyond redemption and a grim look had settled over his hawk-like face. 

Rhiannon alternated between wanting to weep, wring her hands together and tear at her hair, but she exercised control and did nothing save stand illuminated in the gaslight, her heart pounding painfully as she waited for Holmes' deductions. Watson stood beside her, the gallant man's arm around her shoulders. 

"There were four of them," he said, pointing at the ground. "One was a very tall, heavy gentleman with a padded heel on one boot who drags his feet when he walks. We shall call him the Giant. Another was much smaller, possibly as small as you, Rhiannon, judging from the size of his feet, and he smokes cigarettes laced with hashish. He leaned against this wall and watched the other three. We shall call him the Pygmy." Holmes exhibited two cigarette butts; the paper was a peculiar shade of lavender. 

He continued, "The other two were of ordinary height and weight, except that one wore boots of German manufacture, while the other was wore crepe-soled shoes; we shall call them the German and the Burglar." 

They had left the others waiting at the carriage; Rhiannon pitied the footpad who tried to accost the three servants. She knew they were keyed up and ready to assault anything that moved. She leaned into Doctor Watson and listened to Holmes' recreation of the scene, suppressing a frisson of horror at his calm explanation of the terrible events of the night. 

"The German entered first; he was followed by Lina. He wore a long cloak, black, and carried a cane." Holmes pointed to marks on the ground and held out a long, black thread. "The other three were waiting just around the corner and had been for some time. As soon as Lina entered, the German turned and waited. Possibly words were exchanged. Then the Giant struck Lina from behind; by the bloodstains on the ground, I should judge it a sharp head blow. Painful and incapacitating but not usually mortal." 

Rhiannon closed her eyes, fighting back nausea. I am not going to faint! she said to herself sternly. 

"Please, tell me she's all right," Rhiannon whispered faintly. 

Holmes looked at her gravely. "There is not enough blood here to indicate that she was killed. Indeed; I have found signs that Lina was at least partially conscious and able to struggle when the villains loaded her into a waiting carriage. 

"As to their ultimate destination," the detective continued, "I have one or two ideas. Rhiannon, I know little of this case beyond what Lina has chosen to tell me. Did she interrogate James Escott at any time during the last few days?" 

"Yes, she did. That was three days ago. It was her idea for Escott to put a notice in the Times to contact the Mystery Man..." Rhiannon rapidly filled Holmes and Watson in on the extraordinary events surrounding Katchurian and Choi, and the connection to the Hellfire Club and to Escott. 

When she finished, Holmes nodded. "I suspect Escott betrayed her to his employer. What Lina does not know, Rhiannon, is that this Mystery Man, as she has named him, is also known as Lord Blacksin, head of the Hellfire Club." 

"Holmes!," Watson exclaimed. "How the Devil do you know that?" 

Rhiannon lashes fluttered as she fought another wave of nausea and dizziness. Lina needs you! she thought desperately, You must be strong!

"His boots. I have not mentioned to either of you that I am intimately familiar with Blacksin's footprints. Mycroft called upon me several weeks ago and showed me one of the Hellfire Club's sites - some occult ritual had taken place just outside London and Mycroft asked me to deduce what I could from the evidence. The bootprints I saw behind the 'altar' and the ones in the alley are identical." 

"I don't understand. Why would this Blacksin resort to such trickery when as head of the Club, he could just give his orders to Escott in person?" 

Holmes rubbed the side of his long nose. "I believe the answer lies in that young man's fondness for overly-dramatic intrigue. By using this Mystery Man character, Blacksin ensured Escott's interest, possibly by appealing not only to his purse, but to his credulous nature. I had an opportunity to speak to Escott not long ago and I instantly recognized this trait within him. 

"Also, if any of Escott's deeds were discovered," Holmes concluded, "then none of his activities could be traced to Blacksin, who is having enough trouble with the authorities." 

"I see." Rhiannon struggled to think but finally gave up; she was wound too tightly for logic. "Where have they taken her, Mr. Holmes?" 

Holmes grimaced and his gray eyes flared with sudden light. "I fear they have taken her to the headquarters of the Hellfire Club." 

Watson caught Rhiannon barely in time to keep her from cracking her head open on the cobblestones as she fainted. 

Rhiannon woke in the darkness of the carriage, swimming up from terrible dreams to find herself gasping, covered in sweat and in unfamiliar surroundings. She was disoriented and barely stopped herself from giving Dr. Watson the shock of his life; for a moment, she had thought herself to be back in Whitechapel, plying her formal trade, and had almost made an instinctive grab for the gentleman's genitals. 

"What... what... what's happening?," she stuttered, sitting up. Her head had been pillowed on Watson's lap; since this had only added to her initial confusion, she was glad the carriage was too dark for the doctor to see her blushes. They were alone; Henry sat in the driver's seat with Bob beside him and James clung like a monkey to the back of the carriage. 

"We are outside the Diogenes Club, Miss Moore. Holmes is within, consulting with his brother." Dr. Watson was thoughtful. The doorkeeper had refused Holmes' entrance, prompting the detective to wave his fist beneath that worthy's nose and make some fairly grisly threats. This was a side of his friend that Watson had rarely seen - normally, he thought of the detective as a kind of thinking machine rather than a flesh-and-blood man. 

I suppose I shall have to change my views on Holmes, Watson thought. Although my reading public will have to be content with the cold-blooded analyst, rather than the man. They would howl for my blood if I turned about and gave them the 'real' Holmes.

"What's he doing? What's taking so long?" Rhiannon's hands clenched until the nails bit into her palms but she didn't notice. Lina! she screamed inside her mind, Please, please be all right!

"He is attempting to ascertain the location of the Hellfire Club's headquarters. He believes, and rightly in my opinion, that his brother possesses that information." 

Watson harrumphed through his mustache and patted Rhiannon's shoulder, continuing, "Everything will be fine, Miss Moore. You shall see; Holmes is quite formidable and not even Mycroft will be able to withstand him." 

At that moment, the figure of Holmes, houndstooth-checked cape swirling about his feet, appeared in the doorway. The detective half ran to the carriage and threw himself inside, shouting to Henry, "Are you familiar with Old Broughmpton Road?" 

Henry's muffled reply answered in the affirmative; Holmes yelled back, "Then drive like the Devil, man! Our destination is Lord Julian Baxter's estate; let me know when we've arrived at Broughmpton and I'll guide you from there!" 

The carriage jerked as Henry whipped up the horses and they jolted at breakneck speed along the cobblestoned streets. Rhiannon held grimly to one strap and felt for the reassuring presence of the pistol in the pocket of her trousers with her free hand. 

Hold on, my love! she thought, eyes dark with worry. Hold on!

CHAPTER TWENTY

Lord Julian Baxter's estate had been deserted for years; he had left no fortune behind and his heirs had flatly refused to accept the enormous white elephant of a house. The front lawn was a tangled web of weeds and overgrown rhododendron bushes; a cracked marble fountain bore the green and yellow stains of algae, and crickets lived within instead of carp. 

The house itself appeared to be a sleeping Leviathan, the stark black windows like blind eyes peering out into the night. Rhiannon shuddered. She had seen this place in her nightmares. 

They all walked up to the silent house, taking unconscious care not to make a noise. Rhiannon was a little surprised at Bob and James - both men flowed with pantherine grace and their eyes missed nothing. Henry merely swung his truncheon and watched the other two for a signal to act. 

Holmes reached the door first; it had been boarded shut. After a few moments examining it, he muttered, "There must be another way in. Split up - Rhiannon, you come with myself and Watson, you three go around the other way. Look for a cellar door, a back door, or an unlocked window. And do not forget to look for ladders or any other means of ingress to the second or third story. They have obviously taken precautions to make this place look as deserted as possible." 

After forty-five minutes of searching and testing, Rhiannon was ready to weep with frustration. "Where could they be?" she asked, blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears. 

"We shall find her, never fear," Holmes answered absently, testing yet another window. "But... get back, out of sight, the two of you! Someone is coming!" 

Rhiannon heard the soft thud of footsteps in the grass coming towards them. She shrank back into the shadows, practically on top of Watson, as a dark figure pounded up. 

It was Henry; the coachman was breathless. "Bob an' James thought it best if they searched the house while I went through the garden. I think I've bloody well found 'em!" 

"Well done, man! Watson, you fetch Bob and James; Rhiannon and I will go with Henry to see what may be done." The detective's voice held a note of triumph. 

Watson pulled out his Army revolver and checked the chamber. "Right," he said shortly, and for a moment, Rhiannon was sure the doctor was going to snap them a salute. He marched away, every inch the professional soldier, and Rhiannon stifled a tired laugh. 

Holmes looked at his friend's departing figure with gray eyes that sparkled a little. "Good old Watson," he murmured, then stood straighter. "Come, Rhiannon. Let us see to this den of kidnappers." 

Rhiannon hurried away at Holmes heels, eyes darting at every unfamiliar noise and shadow. I see what Lina finds so attractive about this sort of thing, she thought. If I weren't so terrified for her safety, I'd be enjoying myself!

The gardens had once been the estate's glory, full of winding gravel paths, rose-bedecked nooks, fountains and follies. Ancient trees swayed overhead, their leafless branches creaking eerily. There had been a freak thaw that morning; most of the snow had melted but the air was still crisp and bone-chillingly cold. Rhiannon was grateful for the heavy wool cloak she wore; although sudden breezes tended to freeze either her ankles or the back of her neck, she was still fairly warm. 

In the center of the garden, Lord Julian had erected an impressive folly - a gazebo of Eastern design featuring four enormous elephants carved of marble, bearing upon their broad shoulders a peaked-roof building whose columns sported winding dragons and feathered serpents, scantily clad houris, monkeys and palms in bewildering array. 

Holmes muttered upon seeing it, "Bah! Yet another example that money does not necessarily confer good taste." 

The three climbed up the marble stairs, Holmes commenting upon the relative cleanliness of the stairway. "It looks as if it has been used before, and often," he said. The interior of the building was large enough to host a dinner party comfortably with dancing afterward; there was even a tiny dais to accommodate a band. 

For a moment, Rhiannon thought she heard the ghostly echoes of just such a band; she could barely make out, just on the edge of her hearing, a sonorous melody. "Holmes," she began, when the detective raised a hand for silence. 

"I hear it, Rhiannon. It seems to be coming from there," he said. 

In the center of the floor, strewn with leaves and bits of crystal from the crumbling chandeliers, Holmes had spotted a faint outline in the tile. "Hmph," he grunted. He got down on his hands and knees, testing his fingernails against the barely detectable edge. 

Rhiannon and Henry waited, the pretty secretary in agony. She suppressed the urge to give Holmes a sharp clip on the ear and shout, Hurry! She felt as if every nerve in her body was stretched to the breaking point. 

"Ah," Holmes murmured as his sensitive fingers found the pressure points on the tile. "If we press here, and turn this like so..." Abruptly, a section of the floor swung away, revealing a gaping black maw. 

The 'music' became abruptly louder. It was no simple melody; it was the chanting of dozens of male throats in unison. "What is that?" Rhiannon asked. 

Holmes answered, "It sounds like Latin but I am unable to make out the exact phrasing. We shall scout ahead; Henry, you go and wait at the garden entrance for Watson, Bob and James." 

Rhiannon and Holmes descended into the darkness, the strawberry-blonde woman clutching Holmes' proffered hand tightly. 

At the bottom of the steep staircase, a faint shimmer of light could be seen. The two crept towards the light, careful to make no noise. Rhiannon flinched when she stepped in some soft, gooey substance, heartily glad she could not see exactly what it was. 

Some type of smooth walled tunnel extended from the bottom of the stairs. Holmes leaned over and whispered in Rhiannon's ear, "I suspect we are in the remains of a Roman aqueduct. Possibly Lord Julian discovered it when the folly was being built, and utilized it as some sort of secret place for private assignations." 

Rhiannon nodded. They continued picking their way through the tunnel, Holmes deliberately slowing his long stride to accommodate the much smaller woman. 

The light grew stronger, as did the sound of chanting. At the end of the tunnel, there was enough light to enable Rhiannon to clearly see Holmes' beaky profile. 

They exchanged a glance, and by mutual, silent consent, cautiously peered around the edge of the tunnel mouth, Rhiannon's pistol held in one slightly shaking hand. 

The tunnel widened into an enormous, two-story cavern, with the tunnel's mouth opening high above a rock floor, a narrow ledge running around the length of the cavern. A set of wooden stairs, obviously new, had been set against the ledge and led down to a scene from a Gothic novelist's fevered imagination. 

Below, at least two dozen red-robed and hooded figures swayed and chanted in Latin. On a dais at one end, an altar had been set up; the green-veined marble, crafted into the shape of an upside down cross, was stained in rusty patches that Rhiannon realized must be blood. 

Narrowing her eyes, Rhiannon felt a flare of horror and rage when she recognized the pale-skinned and obviously unconscious woman bound to the alter, arms outstretched, feet together - it was Lina. 

She must have made an unconscious move, because Holmes strong hand wrapped around her arm like a steel band. "Do nothing yet, Rhiannon. We must wait for the others," he breathed into her ear. 

A man stood on the other side of the altar, arms spread wide, the folds of his black satin cloak fluttering like bat's wings. He wore a mask over his features, a scowling Devil's face complete with twisting ebony horns and a lewdly protruding wooden tongue. It was the High Priest and leader of the Hellfire Club - the self-styled Lord Blacksin. 

Rhiannon's eyes widened when Blacksin, apparently in response to the droned ritual chant, reached down to the altar and picked up a dagger with a curved blade that glittered with sinister purpose in the bright torchlight. 

"Not yet!" Holmes hissed in her ear as she fought his grip silently, and the detective never knew how close he was to death himself as Rhiannon wildly considered shooting him so she could fly to her lover's rescue. She did not stop to wonder why, at such a moment, she did not feel at all faint; instead, a wellspring of strength she had never known existed seemed to flood her veins with power and deadly purpose. 

After a moment, she calmed enough to consider that Holmes loved Lina too, in his own way, and that he would never allow her to be butchered. She tucked her pistol in the waistband of her trousers and, reaching out, put her hand against Holmes's face. Rhiannon stared directly into Holmes's dark gray eyes and whispered, absolutely serious, "If anything happens to her, Holmes, I will kill you myself." 

Holmes nodded grimly. "If I am wrong, Rhiannon, I will load the bullets myself and guide your hand," he answered softly. "But if this is a Black Sabbath ritual as I believe, we still have a little time before Lina's life is placed in serious jeopardy. You and I, however well armed, cannot possibly succeed against all those men, my child." 

Rhiannon considered his words, then pulled her arm from his suddenly lax grip. "I will wait. For now," she said, and promised herself that the moment she truly suspected that Blacksin was about to harm Lina, she would shoot regardless of the consequences, and she did not particularly care if the man she fired upon was Holmes or the High Priest. 

They waited in silence as the chanting grew more fevered. Blacksin lowered the dagger, and a goblet was placed in the prostrate woman's stomach. The High Priest took a small, black object from a fold of his robe and dipped it into the goblet. Holmes whispered to Rhiannon, "He is consecrating the Profane Host. Please take hold of yourself, Rhiannon. This next part is going to be quite unpleasant." 

Taking the black-dyed Host between his fingers, Blacksin used his other hand to part the folds of Lina's womanhood, and dipped the object within. The sight of that perverted madman laying hands on the woman she loved was almost too much for Rhiannon to bear, but she swallowed heavily and gritted her teeth, keeping a grip on her faltering self-control only by the most severe effort. 

As Blacksin removed, then flourished the Host, a roar of approval rose from the assembled acolytes. Blacksin raised his arms for silence; in the ensuing quiet, he said loudly, "Dark blessings be upon the Unholy Body of our Lord! All Hail Lucifer, Lord of Light and King of the Damned!" 

The acolytes roared again, and four lovely women, wearing nothing but scraps of scarlet silk and dully glinting manacles, circulated among the crowd, passing out crystal glasses of dark wine and small, black-dyed wafers. 

Behind Blacksin, the upside down cross with its blasphemous figure of a leering goat's head superimposed on the body of a well-hung man, seemed to take on a lurid glow. Holmes muttered to Rhiannon, "A parlor trick, my child. Any decent theater knows the strategic use of colored lights." 

The acolytes began to drink heavily, some of them flinging their Hosts to the ground and stamping on them, others urinating on them. The four women kept the wine flowing as Blacksin continued the ritual. 

Lighting black candles impaled on tall, twisting iron holders, seemingly by merely touching them with his fingers (Holmes' whisper of secreted lucifers and a bit of sanded paper glued to the side of the thumb made Rhiannon nod), the High Priest crossed to stand in front of the altar, where a lectern of carved wood held a massive, dark leather bound tome. 

Blacksin declaimed in round, oratorical tones, "Tonight, my brothers, we gather to praise our Lord, Lucifer, and to offer him an appropriate sacrifice. Although this victim we offer is neither virgin nor whore, she is perverted in spirit, for I tell you, she lives in degenerate congress with another woman, and thus belongs to Our Lord in spirit, if not in flesh." 

Rhiannon's pale blue eyes burned. "I'll kill him for that," she muttered angrily as Blacksin continued. 

"First, the chosen sacrifice must drink the sacred wine, the blood of Lucifer; only then will she be fitting to join Our Lord in Hell." 

He moved back behind the altar and picked up the goblet that rested on Lina's stomach. He forced her jaws open and poured the contents down the peer's throat. Rhiannon clearly heard Lina sputter and choke as she nearly drowned in the foul liquid. 

Holmes looked worried. "Where the Devil are they?" he murmured. Then his eyes sharpened. "I think I hear someone approaching from the other end of the passage. I will stay on this side, you on the other; if they prove to be foes, do not hesitate, Rhiannon." 

The pretty woman nodded and silently moved to the other side of the tunnel, pistol held at the ready. 

Rhiannon breathed a silent prayer of thankfulness and relief when the newcomers proved to be a grinning Henry, accompanied by Bob, James and Dr. Watson. 

Holmes quickly gathered the men close to him; Rhiannon pushed her way beneath Bob's thick arm to listen to the detective's whispered instructions. Then a glance at the scene below drove all thought from her mind. 

Blacksin was intoning, "We offer you this sacrifice, O Lord of Darkness, O Master of Iniquity, O Prince of the Everlasting Night. Find it worthy, and reward your servants for their work." 

The High Priest held the dagger again... and this time, it was poised menacingly over Lina's unprotected heart. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Rhiannon barely heard Holmes strangled whisper, "Stop her!" as she darted from the tunnel and raced down the wooden stairs, her only thought to stop Blacksin by whatever means necessary. Her woolen cloak fluttered to the ground behind her as she shrugged it off her shoulders. 

The acolytes turned their heads as Rhiannon shouted, "Bastards! LET HER GO!" 

Blacksin pointed to the small figure hurtling down the stairs. "Stop her!" he said loudly, "The ritual must not be profaned!" 

Eagerly, the men waited in a half circle, hands extended, feral grins stretched across each half-hidden feature. Rhiannon held the pistol as Lina had taught her and fired without trying to aim, trusting that the closely packed ranks would allow her bullets to find a resting place. 

As she fired the fifth shot, and watched another man drop groaning, Rhiannon came to the sickening realization that she had no more bullets. Ignoring the pounding feet behind her as her allies came to the rescue, Rhiannon dauntlessly flung the spent pistol into the face of another acolyte, then noticed, as if in a daze, that the section of rounded rail beneath her hand was loose... 

Even Holmes, who believed there were depths to the petite and pretty Rhiannon that no one had yet suspected, was taken aback as Rhiannon ripped the rail from its fastenings and attacked with enthusiasm if not skill. 

With a shrill scream, Rhiannon launched herself at the assembled acolytes, who were so surprised they flinched back and made no immediate response. Henry, Bob and James hurled themselves into the fray, using their own weapons with deadly proficiency, as Holmes and Watson raced for the altar. 

Rhiannon broke heads and knees with equal abandon, her only thought to clear the path to Lina. Utterly unconscious of her own danger, the pretty woman's face was set in a rictus of fury so frightening that most of the men she fought against got out of her way rather than confront the blood-maddened woman. 

Finally, the acolytes lay on the ground; some clutching their injuries and groaning, some unconscious, and not few dead, thanks to Bob's deadly fists and James' cold-bloodedly professional knife work. 

Nothing stood between Rhiannon and the woman she loved; her sky-blue eyes glittered like icy daggers as she sought the figure of Blacksin. Watson lay on the steps of the altar, holding his shoulder with one hand, his Army revolver as empty as Rhiannon's own dainty pistol, while Holmes grappled with the High Priest. 

Suddenly, Blacksin struck Holmes against the side of his face with the hastily snatched goblet, and the detective collapsed. "Avenge me, O Lord!" Blacksin screamed as he brandished the dagger above Lina again.

Rhiannon had no time to think; she could only react. Hefting the staff like a spear, she nearly wrenched her shoulder from its socket as she launched the length of wood at the hated High Priest, making the air ring with a wild, skirling scream of pure animal rage. 

The heavy staff flew through the air, a deadly purposeful missile, and cracked into the wooden mask Blacksin wore, shattering it into a hundred splinters. 

The High Priest fell, disappearing from view behind the altar. 

Rhiannon panted, rubbing her shoulder. Sheer adrenaline had kept her on her feet; now she was beginning to feel the dizzying after-effects. But Lina was still not safe... she gasped for breath and staggered across the cavern, not caring if she stepped over or on the acolyte's bodies. 

Watson, his own injury ignored for the moment, was lightly slapping Lina's face. Holmes, a bruise darkening one cheek, was cutting the peer's bonds with a pocket knife, his lips so tight they were bloodless. 

Rhiannon had to practically crawl up the steps to the altar, but from somewhere, she dredged up the energy. "What is it, Dr. Watson? Why isn't she waking up?" 

Watson frowned. His mustache was stained with blood on one side where he had been struck by Blacksin's fist in the mouth. "I suspect she has been given some drug. Holmes?" Watson turned to the detective. 

Holmes picked up the fallen goblet and sniffed. His face paled. "Hemlock," he answered shortly. 

Watson's eyes widened. "There is no time to waste, then! Quickly, fetch me some clean water!" 

Rhiannon nearly collapsed on the spot, but fortunately, James had a cooler head than the others. He hurried over to a covered barrel and hefted off the lid. Picking up an unshattered crystal glass, he dipped it into the water barrel and after sniffing suspiciously and taking a tiny sip, he nodded in satisfaction and hurried over to Watson. 

The doctor had scooped up some charcoal from nearby brazier and was busily crushing it in the folds of his handkerchief. As James approached with the glass, Watson snatched it from him with a muttered, "Stout fellow!" and sifted the charcoal dust into the water, stirring it with a finger. 

"Hold her head, Holmes. We must get as much of this mixture down her as we can. And do not let her vomit yet; the charcoal must have time to absorb as much of the poison as possible." 

Rhiannon went to the other end of the altar and draped herself across Lina's cold feet. The strawberry-blonde woman did not want to watch; she squeezed her eyes closed as Lina began to choke, convulsing against the men's firm hold. 

At last, Watson pronounced himself satisfied. "Now, Holmes," he said shortly; Rhiannon heard and felt her lover's gut-wrenching heaves as she vomited the inky black mess onto the floor, herself and both men. 

Blacksin stirred at Holmes' feet; the detective drew back one boot and kicked the High Priest in the temple with casual cruelty. "Leave him there, Watson," he said coldly as the doctor made a half- hearted protest, "I doubt he'll waken again this night." 

Watson subsided. "We need to get her warm and in bed as quickly as possible. When we get back to Grosvenor Square, I will sent for a friend, Dr. Phillip Giles. He is a specialist in poisons; if there is anything else that can be done, he is the man who will know." 

Holmes nodded. He whipped off his own cloak and wrapped it around Lina's nakedness, shifting Rhiannon away gently, and picked the unconscious woman up with little effort. Holding Lady Evangeline in his arms, he said to Watson, "Take care of Rhiannon, my friend. Bob, James and Henry - run back to the carriage and draw it up as close to the house as you can." 

Rhiannon watched Holmes carry Lina away, the peer's head bobbing against the detective's arm, her jet-black hair spilling down in tangled waves. Watson said, "She will be fine, Miss Moore." Then raising his voice, "Holmes? What of the rest of this bloody crew?" 

The lean figure of the world's greatest consulting detective paused. "The authorities are on their way, Watson. By morning, the survivors, including Blacksin, will be in government hands." 

Rhiannon stared down at the unconscious High Priest, his face covered with splinters of brightly colored wood. Her brows furrowed; there was something vaguely familiar... 

Brushing aside the remains of the mask, Rhiannon gasped in shock. 

Lord Blacksin, also known as the Mystery Man, was none other than Andre Katchurian!

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Lina lay beneath the blankets, tucked into bed like a child by a softly weeping Rhiannon. Dr. Giles, the poison expert, had come and gone; he had pronounced Watson's quick thinking action with the charcoal an "excellent job" and had left after prescribing total rest for the next week or two. 

"Under no circumstances should she be allowed to become overexcited," Giles had said in his deep voice, glaring at Rhiannon with fierce black eyes, "and if she suffers a relapse, or even if you merely think she is in danger, summon me at once. I shall have my carriage standing by. Frankly, the only reason I am leaving is because my patient will be in your capable hands, Watson." 

The good doctor had beamed beneath Giles' accolade. "Thank you, Giles. I do appreciate your coming out on such short notice." 

Giles had snorted and snapped his black leather bag shut. "Don't thank me until you receive my bill," he had said dourly, then raising his hat to Rhiannon, took his leave. 

Giles had also bandaged Watson's shoulder; during the struggle, the doctor had been slightly wounded by Blacksin's dagger. "Really," he exclaimed later, as Rhiannon plied him with wine, whiskey or anything else he desired, "it's only a scratch. But I will have another glass of that excellent brandy, if you're offering," he concluded slyly. 

Holmes let out a bark of laughter. "Watson, I believe you enjoy having pretty ladies fuss over you. No, no, child," he said, waving Rhiannon's offered snifter, "None for me, thank you. My whiskey-and-soda is sufficient." 

All five men were seated in the drawing room; Bob and James were guzzling bee,r and Henry was sipping a chartreuse liquor from a tiny glass, his pinkie finger daintily, and absurdly, raised. 

"I don't know how to thank you, all of you," Rhiannon began. Upon returning home and seeing to Lina, the strawberry-blonde woman had loosened her hair and changed into a comfortable, lace-trimmed dressing gown of peacock-blue and pale rose stripes. Although reluctant to leave Lina's side, she knew it was necessary to make an appearance and thank the men who had helped her. That duty finished, she would return to her vigil. 

Hands clasped in front of her, Rhiannon continued, "You saved Lina's life. I can't tell you how grateful I am..." 

The normally silent James answered, his harsh, rasping voice as startling as a crow's. "Fink nuffin' of it, Miss. We owes Milaidy. 'Nuff said." 

The other four men nodded and raised their glasses in silent salute to James, who blushed a little. 

Rhiannon stared at Watson a moment with a wealth of meaning in her pale blue eyes. Holmes shifted in his chair, then rose with a sigh. "Come along, gentlemen," he said to the three servants, "It's time you went to the kitchen to regale the parlor maid and Cook with tales of your heroism; I suspect that if you keep her waiting much longer, the formidable Mrs. Hendricks will salt your tea and sugar your meat." 

Red-gold brows drawn together in a frown, Rhiannon thought, Who the Devil is Mrs. Hendricks? Watson whispered to her, "That's Cook's real name, Miss Moore. But the woman prefers to be called by her title, much like the Queen." 

Despite her exhausted state, Rhiannon smiled. "Thank you, Dr. Watson," she whispered back, as Holmes ushered the servants from the room and quietly shut the door behind him, leaving the two alone; the great detective had no trouble deducing that his two friends needed a quiet moment together. 

"Dr. Watson," Rhiannon began, taking Holmes place beside the gentleman on the chesterfield, "Is Lina going to be all right?" 

"Yes. I am no expert, Miss Moore, but it is my belief, and that of Dr. Giles, that Lady St. Claire will, in time, make a full recovery. She is fortunate that we arrived when we did; another half- hour and she would have surely succumbed to the hemlock, if not to Blacksin's knife." 

Tears trembled on Rhiannon's lashes. "If you had not acted as quickly as you did," she said, "all would have been lost. I have you to thank most of all, Dr. Watson. You, more than anyone, saved Lina's life." 

Watson harrumphed through his mustache. "Quite all right, Miss Moore," he replied, a little embarrassed by all the attention. "It was my pleasure." 

They sat in silence for a moment, then Rhiannon asked, "Dr. Watson...is there something between Holmes and Lina I should know about?" She was nervous but felt she had to ask; the Holmes she had seen tonight bore little resemblance to the man she had read about and occasionally visited in the company of Lina. 

Watson replied evenly, "Perhaps that is a question you should ask Lady St. Claire." 

Rhiannon's hands trembled and she buried them in the folds of her dressing gown. "I... I don't think she knows..." 

The doctor looked a little shame-faced. "I'm sorry, Miss Moore. With your permission, I will attempt to explain." 

Rhiannon nodded, and Watson continued, "I have long believed that my good friend Holmes has, shall we say, certain feelings for Lady Evangeline; feelings, I hasten to add, he has not made plain or uttered to a single living soul. I believe he loves her, Miss Moore. Not as a teacher, mentor or friend; but as a man loves a woman." 

Rhiannon nodded again, tears slowly making a silvery track down her pale cheeks. "I thought so, too. Tonight, he seemed so... different. From anything I've seen before, or Lina has told me about, or what I've read in your stories." 

Watson sighed. "I have perhaps done Holmes a disservice with those tales of mine, Miss Moore. I fear I have depicted him as a cold- blooded creature of absolute logic, devoid of emotion and contemptuous of women. In truth, that was how I thought of him, since he never expressed any sort of feeling for a woman that I could ascertain. Do you know, at one time I thought him a homosexual?" 

Rhiannon's pale blue eyes twinkled a little despite her sadness. "I can't see Holmes prancing around the bedroom in a peignoir, Dr. Watson." 

Although Watson was a little shocked by Rhiannon's frankness, he had to laugh at the absurd image. "Nor I!" Then he sobered. "However, Holmes' strong regard for Lady Evangeline is his greatest secret, and he would be appalled and devastated should it ever get out. Especially if the lady herself were to hear...?" 

Rhiannon shook her head, strawberry-blonde hair swirling across her shoulders. "She'll never hear it from me, doctor. It would cause an irreparable breach between them and I'll do nothing that would damage their friendship." 

Watson reached over and picked up one of Rhiannon's hands, raising it to his lips. "You are a true lady, Miss Moore. I am glad to have gotten to know you, although I would have preferred less dire circumstances." 

"And I'm glad to have met you, Dr. Watson." 

The two new friends regarded one another. Rhiannon finally asked, "Why do you bear Lina so much animosity, doctor? Or, I should say, did bear?" 

Watson sighed. "I believed she was toying with Holmes' affections, Miss Moore. Mind you, I have never had much truck with the highest social circles, but, being Holmes' friend, I have had occasion to meet ladies of standing - flirtatious, empty-headed and at times, malicious. I could not believe Lady St. Claire did not realize the depths of Holmes' regard for her; I chose to believe instead that she played with his feelings." 

Rhiannon's eyes were wide. "But... that doesn't sound like Lina at all!" 

Watson regarded her and stroked his mustache thoughtfully. "True. However, there are none so blind as those who will not see. I chose not to recognize the lady's true character. And perhaps... perhaps I regarded her as something of a threat." 

"Whatever do you mean?" Rhiannon crinkled her brows in puzzlement. 

Watson sighed again. "Miss Moore, sometimes my reading public believes me to be nothing more than a bumbler; a fool who stands in the great man's shadow and chronicles his adventures blindly, understanding nothing. In fact, Holmes' is my greatest friend and I am fully conscious of the honor he does by deeming me so. Without him, I would be nothing more than a humble doctor practicing my profession. I... well, it is not an easy thing to admit, but I believe I was jealous." 

One corner of Rhiannon's mouth dimpled into a slight smile. "You, doctor? Jealous of Lina?" 

"Yes. At first, I considered Holmes' fascination with her as a passing fancy. But soon, as she took more and more of his time away from me, I began to resent her. Whereas once it had been, 'The game's afoot, Watson!,' now suddenly it was, 'Oh, there you are, good fellow. Lina and I are working on a most fascinating case.' I felt she was usurping a position I considered mine alone. Confounded foolish of me, I admit. The worst part of it was, all the time I watched Holmes wrestle with what I considered to be the Devil, and the succubus had Lady St. Claire's face." 

"Oh, my. I take it, however, you are... well, that you've put aside these feelings? Lina especially owes you much after this night's work, Dr. Watson. And I hope you understand that she truly doesn't know how Mr. Holmes feels?" 

"Yes, I realize that, Miss Moore. The fact was brought upon me the first time I saw the two of you together in Baker Street. She loves you, my child; that is clearly evident. For the first time, I realized my petty emotions had less to do with Lady St. Claire and more to do with Holmes." 

"I'm sure they never meant to make you feel... left out." 

"I understand now - I am Holmes' friend; nothing will ever change that, and I've been behaving a bit of a bounder lately. Frankly, I'm surprised Holmes hasn't pounded that fact into my head yet." 

"Perhaps he didn't want to hurt his knuckles?," Rhiannon replied slyly. 

Watson laughed. "Just so, Miss Moore! I can only hope that Lady St. Claire will forgive my obstinacy. I would certainly be honored to be considered a friend of hers." 

Then something the doctor had said suddenly struck Rhiannon. "You... you know we're lovers? And it doesn't bother you?" 

Watson sighed. "My dear Miss Moore," he replied, "It is true that I am a gentleman and a Christian; as such, I should condemn the two of you for what is considered to be an unnatural relationship. However, I am not nearly as judgemental as some might believe. In Afghanistan, I saw... well, let us say I saw many things that a normal British gentleman would not be exposed to. My world view was expanded, my child. Besides, I am enough of a romantic that I find true love admirable - however it is expressed." 

They sat another moment more in silence as Rhiannon digested this. Then she asked softly, "Do you think Mr. Holmes will ever find someone?" 

Watson replied a little sadly, "I hope so, Miss Moore. I certainly hope so." 

When Holmes returned a few moments later, they were still sitting together, Watson holding Rhiannon's small hand in his own. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

It would be another day before Lina regained consciousness, and another two days before both Watson and Giles pronounced her fit to appear in her own study, albeit swathed in afghans and given strict orders to remain prone. 

"And do not become overtired, Lady St. Claire," Watson threatened with a fierce scowl, "or I shall be forced to administer a sedative." 

Rhiannon giggled as Lina stuck out her tongue behind Watson's back. "Bloody tyrant!" the peer muttered. 

Lina's looking much better, Rhiannon thought. The deadly pallor of her face had regained some of its normal color; despite a certain lingering weakness, her lover seemed well on the way to recovery. 

"I have asked you all here today," Lina began, "in order to reveal to you the conclusion of my case." Her gesture took in Holmes and Watson. "My dear Holmes, if you would do the honors?" 

"Certainly." Holmes stood and walked over to the mantle, taking down the cuckoo clock. Fastened to the underside with a bit of sticking plaster was a key. 

Lady Evangeline's safe was an enormous, solid steel affair that had been set into the hardwood floor of the study. Holmes walked over and used the key to open the safe; reaching inside, he retrieved a package wrapped in oilcloth. 

"Just set it there," Lina said, indicating a table that had been drawn up between the sofa and two chairs. "Rhiannon, kindly open the package." 

Rhiannon complied, carefully tearing away layers of oilcloth to reveal a golden box covered in jewels; the box's peacock feet with their chips of diamond and ruby glittered in the morning sun that streamed through the windows. 

"Is this it?" Rhiannon asked, enthralled. Even Watson had leaned forward a little, the better to view this priceless treasure. 

"Yes. The Madman's Tarot is within. Open it, Rhiannon. Let us view this occult prize for which so many have died." 

With trembling fingers, Rhiannon opened the lid. Inside, pale sheets of thin ivory, sporting multi-hued images of haunting beauty, rested on midnight black velvet. She tipped the cards out of the box, allowing them to clatter and slide on the table. "They're extraordinary!" she breathed. 

Holmes picked up one card and scrutinized it. "Yes, I believe this is the genuine article. You have my congratulations, Lina." 

Lina bowed her head. Rhiannon had bullied the peer into wearing a becoming combing gown of dark purple enhanced by a brocade collar and wide poet's sleeves; her ink-black hair had been pulled back and tied at the neck with a bit of ribbon. "Thank you, Holmes. Now, let sit back, all of you, and refresh your drinks. My tale will be a long one, although, I hope, not unworthy of the telling." 

Holmes chuckled as Watson retorted, "Good God, Holmes! She's beginning to sound like you, too!" 

The peer smiled. "Thank you, Dr. Watson. I consider that a compliment. Well, first, let us begin eleven years ago when a young woman died a concubine's death and was buried in the grounds of Buckingham Palace. As you know, her death was the direct result of the machinations of one Corporal Christopher Phelps. The box you see before you was the treasure Kitri paid for with her life." 

"But I thought Katchurian sold the box to a gentleman?" Rhiannon asked. 

"He sold a box to the gentleman, my dear. I took the opportunity to carefully examine the man's possession; it was an obvious fraud, though cunning in its manufacture. It was merely gilded wood, however, with paste gems, and its contents were false as well. The gentleman in question was quite nervous; he knew he had purchased a fraud and, since he had a quite undeserving reputation as an expert in occult matters, he feared the matter would become public. I reassured him of my discretion; he confessed what he knew. That discovery provided me with my second confirmation that Katchurian was lying." 

"What was your first clue?," Holmes asked. 

"When Rhiannon and I went to Katchurian's shop on Threadneedle Street the morning after William M'Peace was murdered, I observed the surroundings carefully. Although he claimed to be a successful dealer in antiques, his shop was obviously in a state of disuse, considering all the dust, and furthermore, filled with trash of little or no value. No, Katchurian was not what he seemed to be, and after Jackson and I found the box in Kitri's grave, I knew that Katchurian's connection to the case was stronger than he had claimed." 

"You found the box in her grave? Why would the Shah bury such a rich treasure with the body of an unfaithful woman?" Rhiannon was still confused, although Holmes' face held the broad, approving smile of a teacher whose student has done something very clever. 

"I did not know the box would be in her grave, Rhiannon. It was merely a possibility, albeit one which Mycroft Holmes admitted had some merit, considering his close involvement with the original episode. It was clear that Katchurian had no more idea of the box's location than the man in the moon; it also became apparent that he was willing to go to great lengths to recover it. I suspect the Shah never knew of the true value of what he buried with Kitri's body; if he had, he would have slit his own throat before losing it. Perhaps, Holmes, you can explain?" 

Holmes cleared his throat. "Christopher Phelps and Andre Katchurian were one and same person, Rhiannon. I contacted a retired member of the Guard who clearly remembered Phelps and was willing to provide a description. Even with eleven years' passage, the gentleman's memory proved acute enough to identify the false antique dealer with the rogue." 

Rhiannon turned to Lina and said accusingly, "So! You and Holmes were working together!" 

"Not exactly, my dear," the peer replied. "But I shall explain later. Do go on, Holmes." 

To Rhiannon's surprise, Holmes did not say anything. Picking up the heavy gold box, he ran his fingers along the empty interior, then ripped a corner of the black velvet away. Even Watson protested this desecration, but Holmes merely smiled. 

Reaching behind the lining, the detective withdrew a piece of age-spotted parchment. "I believe this was another item that Kitri brought to her betrayer. Phelps had just enough time to stuff it behind a loose corner of the lining and fasten it back down before he was forced to flee. It was the loss of this paper which caused the Nassered-Din, in a fit of rage, to order Kitri's death, and he threw the box into the grave, believing it worthless beside the true treasure." 

"But what is it?" Dr. Watson's face was a picture of puzzlement. 

"Watson, contained within this scrap of parchment lies the location of the Peacock Throne." 

Lina laughed at Rhiannon's perplexed expression. "The Peacock Throne is the hereditary throne of the Kings of Persia, my dear," she explained. "It has been lost for some time. The Nassered-Din's family knew the location but chose to keep it a secret, deeming the times inappropriate for Persia to emerge as a nation of strength and security once again. Kitri knew this was the chief treasure of the Shah's house; no doubt she entertained thoughts of sharing this mighty fortune with Phelps." 

"How the Devil did you learn all this?" Watson asked. 

"As to that, Mycroft, whose fingers are in every pie of government, told me of the Shah's loss when I visited him at the Diogenes Club. I am sorry, my dear," the peer continued contritely to Rhiannon, "but I did warn you that there were aspects of the case I was unwilling to discuss." 

"So, Katchurian, or I should say, Phelps, wanted the Peacock Throne; why didn't he get it himself?,'' Rhiannon asked. 

"Because he was not clever enough to deduce its location, my dear. During his stay on the Continent, he took the opportunity to make discreet inquiries regarding the box's disposition; he knew it was no longer in the Shah's possession, and believed it was still in this country. And there were other matters to consider, as well." 

"Such as?" 

"Murder. And blackmail." The peer's voice was flat and her emerald green eyes dark with remembered pain. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

"I first began to suspect the false Katchurian when we visited his shop, Rhiannon," Lina continued, "but when he gave me that horrible Hand-of-Glory, I knew he was, if not the mastermind of this plot, then at least, a willing participant. The only other question was: Who else? Then Holmes gave me my other connection - Mrs. Choi, or Sui Lee Wan. 

"You accompanied me to The Triton's Club, and Sui Lee was very careful to appear reluctant to provide me with any information. However, knowing her as well as I did, I knew she lied and forced her hand. She gave me another of those witchcraft toys and I knew at that moment that she and Phelps were neck and neck together. I believe such corpse-leavings have as much magical power as a toadstool, so I deduced I was being led in a particular direction; I just did not know why." Lina paused to sip a cup of steaming tea that Rhiannon had pressed into her hand. 

"Thank you, my dear," the peer continued. "What I did not realize at the time was that dear, sweet Sui Lee was manipulating me even more than I suspected. She knew I would realize the connection between herself and Phelps, and hoped I would find the box and its invaluable information." 

"How did Sui Lee know Phelps?" Rhiannon asked. 

"It is my belief that they met on the Continent; certainly a rogue like Phelps would prove irresistible to Sui Lee's charms. Her appeal to Holmes was nothing more than a ruse; she hoped to get me involved from the start but chose a roundabout way of doing it to avoid arousing my suspicions. She lusted after the chance to get the better of me again, and how better to do so than to snatch a prize from beneath my very nose? 

"At any rate, three years ago Phelps returned to this country and took up residence as a Swiss antiques dealer. Discreet inquiries to the Immigration Board confirmed that 'Andre Katchurian' had made an application for admittance at that time; coincidentally, the same time Phelps disappeared from Switzerland. Phelps began cultivating the younger sons of the nobility, resurrecting the Hellfire Club to appeal to their baser instincts, and his ultimate purpose was blackmail." 

"Yes," Holmes added, "Mycroft was good enough to allow me to observe his interrogation of Phelps. Of course, the gentleman blames the entire affair on Madame Choi, however, I do not think that will be enough to keep the noose from his neck." 

Lina continued, "I could not contact Harry Dorset; the Inspector had had an unexpected windfall and was on holiday with his wife and children in the Orkneys. I might have found this coincidence suspicious, had I not been distracted by M'Peace's death." 

Rhiannon patted the distressed peer's hand. "So Phelps arranged for M'Peace's death, both to spur your investigation and to get rid of an unexpected inconvenience." 

"Yes. Poor William. Had I known the serpent's nest I was sending him into, I would never have allowed him to go. Phelps agreed to hire William to keep me from suspecting him." Lina sighed. "Well, I was more determined than ever to see justice done." 

"So you questioned Escott...," Rhiannon prompted. 

"And learned of his dealings with his two 'masters.' My tapestry was nearly complete; I lacked only the identity of the Mystery Man to tie the case together." 

"But why did Sui Lee allow one of her, er, 'valuable assets' to be murdered by Phelps?" This point still confused Rhiannon. 

"My dear, Naga was Kitri's sister. She was not kidnapped, by Phelps or anyone else. Sui Lee learned of Phelps' secret - that he sought, not an occult curiosity, but a treasure worthy of kings. I suppose she found the lure irresistible. She tortured Naga, hoping the sister would know the location of the map; then Sui Lee arranged for another two 'kidnappings' to take place to avert the suspicions of the authorities away from herself. 

"That was her second purpose in contacting Holmes; if the great man himself could vindicate her, she would possess an invaluable asset against police inquiry. But the police were indifferent at best, so she began to scheme again. She had aided Phelps in returning to this country; in return for that aid, she now demanded he share the treasure with him." 

"How did you learn all this?" Rhiannon asked. 

Holmes answered, "Sui Lee Wan was arrested two days ago on the boat-train to Calais. She was attempting to flee the country. Inspector Lestrade was good enough to share his information with me, and I, in turn, passed it on to Lina." 

"I see." Rhiannon was thoughtful. "So, Sui Lee Wan manipulated everyone - you, Holmes, Phelps... she was truly a terrible woman, Lina." 

"Yes, my dear, I agree with you. Phelps knew I found something in that grave; I have known that someone had been watching the house since the case began, but I believed it was one of Sui Lee's servants. I have since discovered it was Phelps' spy. Since I considered Sui Lee a villainess, but ultimately cowed by my threats, I was unconcerned. In truth, Rhiannon, Sui Lee knows me better than I know myself; time and time again, she played on me as upon a stringed instrument, and I unknowingly danced to her tune." 

Lady Evangeline looked stricken. Rhiannon carefully leaned against the taller woman and hugged her gently. "Never mind, Lina. I love you anyway." 

Lina flushed. "Thank you, my dear," she said softly. "Now then. In my disguise, I followed our Mystery Man to the alley and was struck down. When I awoke, it was to find myself naked and bound to that altar, with a gloating Phelps - or Katchurian - looming over me." 

Lady Evangeline paused. That moment had been one of the most frightening of her life. Absolutely helpless, believing herself doomed to death, she had struck a Devil's bargain with Phelps - the location of the box, and its contents, in return for a guarantee of Rhiannon's safety. Phelps had known the peer could not be broken by torture, and so he had agreed. 

Now, Lina broke into a cold sweat as she realized what a fool she had been. If I had not been rescued, she thought, Phelps would have killed Rhiannon without blinking an eye, never mind the vow he gave me.

Rhiannon sensed something was upsetting Lina as the peer's body stiffened in her arms. "What's the matter, love?" she asked softly, forgetting about the presence of Holmes and Watson. 

"I... I told him I had found the box, Rhiannon. I told him where I had hidden it, and how to gain access to the safe. He threatened you, dearheart - threatened to torture you before my eyes - and I knew I could not withstand him. I extracted his oath to leave you unharmed, and take the bloody box with my compliments. I now realize that Phelps would have cheerfully broken that vow, and all Ten Commandments besides, to get his hands on that treasure." 

Rhiannon rested her head on Lina's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Lina. But I still love you - nothing will change that." 

Gratefully, the peer kissed Rhiannon's forehead. "My dearest love...," she murmured. 

A wide-eyed Holmes watched Dr. Watson, the man he believed to be tight-laced and provincial, smile widely and dab his eyes with a handkerchief, a little overcome with the two women's display of emotion. 

Lina cleared her throat. "My apologies, gentlemen," she said. "I did not intend to shock you or make you uncomfortable." 

"It's quite all right, Lady St. Claire," Watson said expansively, "Reminds me of my own sweet Mary." Holmes goggled as the doctor continued, "There is one thing that still puzzles me, however. How did Phelps know you would recover the box?" 

"He knew of my connection to Holmes. Your stories have made our mutual friend the talk of the Continent; the people think he can practically walk on water. Phelps believed that if I proved unable to locate the box, I would turn to my mentor for assistance and then the map was as good as in his hands." 

Watson gave her a hang-dog look. "Those bloody stories again! Holmes, I wish with all my heart that I'd never wrote the blasted things to begin with!" 

Holmes reached over and gripped Watson's shoulder. "You have immortalized me in print, my old friend. That is the only type of immortality that lasts, and I, for one, am grateful to you for having done so." 

"So," Rhiannon said, "Phelps was working with Sui Lee all along; the Madman's Tarot was nothing more than an excuse for him to recover the map." 

"Yes," Lina responded. "When you told me about Professor Woolbright's story regarding the Tarot's disposition to Persia, I knew there had to be a reason for that country to keep popping up. That was when I consulted Mycroft and learned about Kitri's death. Sui Lee and Phelps' mention of the 'Peacock Prince' was supposed to serve a double purpose as well - to distract me with the Hellfire Club and hopefully keep me from learning about the map." 

"What will you do now?" Rhiannon asked. 

"Mycroft Holmes will return the box, and all its contents, to the Shah. Phelps and Sui Lee will remain in Newgate until their trial on charges of murder and conspiracy, and Escott has been returned in disgrace to his family seat in Glasgow. The Hellfire Club is no more; Mycroft's minions scooped up the survivors and cleaned up the cavern. The entrance has been blocked up; hopefully, no one will be able to use Baxter's folly for such an ill use again." 

"Why did Escott use Baxter's name in his dealings with Phelps as Katchurian?" 

"Because, my dear, Escott, while a brute, had a simple mind. Unable to come up with a suitable false identity, he used the first thing that popped into his head. Phelps was furious, but in the end coyly offered this tidbit to me, knowing I would eventually interrogate Escott and get the truth from him. Again, I was manipulated, if not quite as cunningly as before." 

Holmes cleared his throat. "I believe that is the end of the case, Lina. However, I have a small confession of my own." 

Lina raised an ebony brow. "Really? Go on, then, Holmes." 

The detective flushed a little. "I followed you to Buckingham Palace, Lina. It was I who provided the explosion which distracted the guards. Mycroft knew of your plan as well; he suspected you might try and pillage the gravesite, so he summoned me to ask for my assistance in foiling you. After I explained the connection with the Hellfire Club, however, my brother arranged for the guard's rifles to be devoid of ammunition - he did this at my instigation." 

Lina stared at Holmes open-mouthed. "So that is why they did not shoot at us! Really, Holmes, I am in your debt. Thank you, my dear friend." 

Holmes flushed a little more. Turning to Watson, he said, by way of a distraction, "I am curious, Watson. Tell me... i you were romanticizing Lina's case as you have done so many of my own, what would you title it?" 

Watson thought a moment. Slowly, he replied, "I believe I should call it... The Devil's Advocate." 

Lina's crow of laughter echoed throughout the house. 

Later that evening, Rhiannon lay tucked against Lina's back in their canopied bed, watching shadows play against the underside of the tapestry. 

"Lina?" 

"Mmph?" 

"Do you love me?'' 

Lina rolled over to gather her lover in her arms. "Of course I do, my dear. What prompts such a question?'' 

A little nervously, the strawberry-blonde woman said, "I have one more Christmas gift to give you. I've been saving it, you see, until after you finished the case." She proffered a small jeweler's box that was cracked with age. 

Lina opened it, saying, "But my dear! Really! The magnifying glass, the little ivory horse from Japan, and the first edition of John Donne's poetry were quite enough, I assure you... oh my," she breathed. 

A jeweled band, set with an oval emerald flanked by bars of pale blue topaz, glinted up at her in the uncertain moonlight. Shaking, Lina removed the ring and held it up. "What...?" she choked, voice cracking. 

"It belonged to my great-grandmother. My father gave it to me just before he died; even when I was starving, I never considered selling it. I want you to wear it, Lina. I want the world to know how much I love you." 

"Oh, my dear," Lina said, tears falling from her matchless green eyes, "I don't quite know what to say." 

"All you have to do is say 'yes,"' Rhiannon replied softly. A single tear traced its way down her cheek. "Will you take me, Lady Evangeline St. Claire, to be your lawful wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this night forward, in sickness and in health, till death us do part?" 

"Yes. Oh, yes!" Lina wailed, then slipped the ring onto the third finger of her left hand and embraced the smaller woman, crying wildly with happiness. 

Rhiannon smiled over the peer's shoulder as Lina gasped, "But I haven't got anything for you!" 

"That's all right, love. I'll take you as you are. No improvements or embellishments are necessary." 

Lina, still crying, captured Rhiannon's lips with her own... 

The moon shone on two bodies, entwined together in the world's oldest dance... 

And its most glorious.

EPILOGUE

Hail wedded love, mysterious law, true source
Of human offspring, sole propriety,
In Paradise of all things common else.
Sleep on, Blest pair; and O yet happiest if ye seek
No happier state, and know to know no more.
-----Milton, Paradise Lost

<~~~~~ Return to the Library

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The Banshee's Wail by Nene Adams ©1998 - All rights reserved

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PROLOGUE

I see black dragons mount the sky,
I see earth yawn beneath my feet -
I will feel the asp, the worm
That will not sleep and cannot die,
Fair though may show the winding sheet !
I hear all night as through a storm
Hoarse voices calling, calling
My name upon the wind -
All omens monstrous and appalling
Affright my guilty mind.
----- James Clarence Mangan, Shapes and Signs

CHAPTER ONE
LONDON, JUNE, 1889

Rhiannon relaxed in hot bathwater, the sweet scent of lilies wafting up with the steam. Her long, red-gold hair floated around her shoulders and she was immersed in bubbles to her chin. Ah, she thought, this is the life...

The pretty woman's turquoise blue eyes were closed as she listened to her lover, Lady Evangeline St. Claire, read the Agony Column notices of the London Times aloud; it had grown to be their Sunday morning ritual. 

Rhiannon would bathe (requiring a great deal of help with such important matters as back scrubbing), and then she would relax a little while, letting hot water and the sound of Lina's cultured voice soothe away her cares. 

Rhiannon had come to enjoy it immensely; so, to judge from her enthusiastic reaction, had Lina. 

"...if the maid of Sir Timothy Carstairs will communicate with her former London address, she will receive a reward of five pounds for goods and services rendered and returned... Bah!" The peer's beautiful face bore a look of sheer disgust. "No doubt the wayward maid has absconded with the family silver or some such! When will those thick-headed members of the House of Lords learn - if you pay a servant starvation wages, do not be surprised if he steals you blind!" 

Rhiannon murmured, "Muzzle not the ox that treadeth out the corn." 

"Precisely, my dear. You have put it succinctly; I should expect no less from a tutor's daughter." 

The strawberry blonde woman sank a little deeper into the tub as the rustling of pages filled the room. When Lina became agitated, the newspaper often suffered as a result. 

Lady Evangeline peeked from behind the unfolded sheet of newsprint and let her emerald green eyes rest on Rhiannon's face. Seen through a gauzy veil of steam, the other woman's features seemed to possess a slightly unreal beauty. Like one of Raphael's more wicked angels, she thought. 

Lina smiled as she contemplated what else the morning would bring. First, helping dry Rhiannon off with fluffy towels, then rubbing her with scented oil... then... Lina swallowed, tore her eyes from the tempting scene and cleared her throat loudly, rattling the paper. 

Rhiannon's lips stretched into a tiny smile of her own; despite closed eyes, she hadn't missed a thing. 

"Ahem!" Lina continued, wiping the back of one hand surreptitiously across her brow. "If the daughter of Henry...," she began,  voice trailing off as she continued to read in silence. 

A tiny frown crinkled the strawberry blonde's brows. What is she up to? Rhiannon wondered. If she doesn't get on with it, I'm going to look like a dried plum by the time I get out.

Behind the paper, Lina's eyes were wide. "My dear," she said, voice high with excitement, "Listen to this! 'If the daughter of Henry Moore and Mary Moore nee Stewart will contact the office of Jeremy Grimes, solicitor, she will learn something to her advantage.' By God, sweetheart! I believe this refers to you!" 

Rhiannon sat up with a splash. "W-w-what?" she stammered. "But I don't know any, er... what did you say the name was?" 

"Grimes. Jeremy Grimes. I do not believe I have heard of him either, but then, London is crowded with all manner of solicitors and barristers. His offices are in the Temple; he must be respectable at least." 

Rhiannon stood up, clutching a bath sponge in one hand. "Lina! I've never heard of this man in my life! And what does he mean, 'something to my advantage?" Water cascaded off her body, leaving behind an errant trail of soap bubbles; wet hair clung to her skin like strands of copper wire. 

Lina carefully folded the paper and laid it on the floor beside her chair. This morning, she was dressed in a man's shirt of Egyptian cotton, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and nothing else; her raven-dark hair swirled to her hips, limp with steam. 

Long alabaster legs, crossed at the ankles, stretched out in front of her. Her skin gleamed and the seat of the chair already bore a sweaty imprint of her bare bottom - which happened every Sunday; Rhiannon had half-threatened to hire a photographer to make a daguerreotype of the phenomenon as a memento. 

"Well, my dear," the peer said, "that is the usual lawyerly talk which can be interpreted to mean that you are a beneficiary of someone's will. Or something along those general lines." Her tone, while mild, was deceptive; the peer's green eyes were locked on Rhiannon's bubble-strewn body. Tiny beads of moisture pearled on her upper lip and she licked them away, not moving her eyes an inch from the entrancing sight. 

"But Lina, I don't have any relatives. At least, none that I know of. Why would someone leave me anything in a will? Could it be a trick of some kind?" Rhiannon was beginning to get a little upset; her former profession as a prostitute had left her with a paranoid fear of public scrutiny. 

The pretty secretary cringed, thinking wildly, Could one of my old customers be trying to blackmail Lina? We often go to the theater, to dinner, we could have been seen together.

In her agitation, Rhiannon's small hands squeezed the sponge, sending a sheet of soapy water trickling over her belly; she did not notice Lina's reaction to this involuntary gesture. 

Lina's hands fumbled with the shirt buttons; her breath quickened as the wooden seat beneath her became slicker. She swallowed heavily and said, in as normal a tone as she could muster, "I could not say, Rhiannon. But if you wish, I will accompany you to this solicitor's office. You need not be apprehensive, my dear." A muffled curse followed this assertion as one button proved frustratingly stubborn. 

The strawberry blonde woman was lost in thought, oblivious to what her companion was doing. What if someone saw us, someone who knew me when I was Sugarbaby? What if someone is trying to hurt Lina? She shifted a little, making her full breasts jiggle and causing an avalanche of bubbles from one rose pink nipple. 

Lina's eyes widened further still and her struggles with the recalcitrant shirt more frantic. 

Rhiannon snapped out of her self-induced trance when she heard Lina rasp hoarsely, "Aphrodite... rising from the foam..." 

Startled, Rhiannon glanced down at herself and laughed a little self-consciously. "Oh, really, Lina! You're being ridic.." Her voice broke off as the dark-haired woman, finally losing patience and on the verge of losing sanity, gripped her shirt in both strong hands and ripped it open; Rhiannon was forced to duck as buttons flew around the tiled room like bullets. 

"But Lina," Rhiannon protested, "I haven't... you didn't... no, wait! At least let me...," she began as the other woman shrugged the remnants of her shirt to the floor and stalked across the room. "Oh, come now, Lina! It's not as if we didn't..." 

Her mouth closed as she realized for the first time that her lover was completely, magnificently nude. Lina's firm breasts swayed slightly with every graceful movement, dark nipples painfully erect. 

Oh, my, Rhiannon thought, mesmerized by the shifting of hard muscles beneath the peer's skin. Her knees nearly buckled and she squeezed the sponge again unconsciously. 

Lina stopped and looked down at Rhiannon; standing up in the clawfooted tub, her lover's sky-blue eyes were at the level of the taller woman's chin, instead of flush with her breasts as usual. 

Rhiannon's skin was creamy pink from the steaming bathwater; a frothing foam of soap bubbles glistened on every voluptuous curve. Even the fiery thatch at the juncture of Rhiannon's smooth thighs dripped with tiny bubbles; Lina took a deep breath and let it out slowly, emerald eyes glowing with desire. 

Reaching out, the peer took the sponge from Rhiannon's hands and threw it over her broad shoulder, where it landed with a soggy squelch on the floor. "But my dear," Lina purred, "that was last night. An entire eight hours ago. And I did miss my breakfast, you know." 

Rhiannon giggled a little but her eyes remained locked on the ebony curls between Lina's thighs; she knew the glistening moisture that saturated every strand had nothing to do with sweat or steam. "You know good and well that Cook doesn't serve breakfast on Sundays until ten o'clock," she answered absently, running her tongue over her lips. 

Lina raised a dark brow. "It is not food I am hungry for, dearheart."  She moved closer to the edge of the tub until she could feel Rhiannon's full breasts slide against her own; placing both arms around the other woman's waist, Lina ran her hands over the slippery wet skin of her lover's buttocks and squeezed gently. 

Rhiannon giggled again as Lina's lips captured her own in a hungry kiss... then she inhaled sharply as the other woman's tongue glided over hers, delving deeply, ravishing her with savage purpose. Rhiannon tore her mouth away with a gasp and took Lina's lower lip between her teeth, tugging and sucking gently. 

Rhiannon curled her hands over Lina's shoulders and felt the vibrations of the other woman's deep moan all the way down to her toes as she firmly pressed one thigh against the peer's sopping curls. Lina spread her legs further apart and began rocking against the offered flesh, cursing in frustration when the side of the ceramic tub interfered. 

Rhiannon bent her knee and thrust her leg between Lina's thighs, allowing the peer to slide herself along its length, their breasts jostling together, the strawberry-blonde woman's toes braced against the curled edge of the tub. Rhiannon gripped Lina's shoulders to maintain balance and struggled to keep her leg raised as her lover's movements became increasingly urgent. 

Lina bit the side of Rhiannon's neck, knowing this would drive the other woman wild; for her own part, Lina could feel electric sensations thrumming through her body, as if she had been lashed by lightning, deep waves of ecstasy cresting higher and higher. She slid herself along Rhiannon's thigh, pressing harder, and reached down blindly with one hand... 

Rhiannon whimpered softly and her eyes closed as she felt the peer's strong fingers part her folds and rub the slick flesh gently, thumb teasing her nub; only her white-knuckled grip on Lina's shoulders and her lover's other arm around her waist kept her from falling over. She pressed herself against the offered palm but waited... 

Lina grunted with effort, her eyes closed tightly as lightning lashed again and sparks whirled from the aching place between her thighs. 

In a few moments, Lina's hand withdrew; her own need had become too great to be denied. She rode Rhiannon's thigh more frantically, almost sobbing, firm belly smacking into the other woman's, hands clenching the rounded cheeks of Rhiannon's bottom hard enough to leave bruises, nearly desperate with desire. Lina's eyes squeezed tighter as the sweet sensations of pleasure reached a near painful level. 

Rhiannon released one hand from Lina's shoulder and gripped the back of her neck, drawing her lover's face down for a kiss. Her tongue danced and fluttered with Lina's in a sensuous duel; both women's bodies were covered in a fine sheen of sweat. 

Lina moaned into Rhiannon's mouth and her hips bucked wildly; she felt the timeless moment that comes just before the pinnacle. Lina tore her mouth away from Rhiannon's and buried her teeth mindlessly in her lover's shoulder as she felt herself pushed over the edge and release came. 

Lina convulsed and she crushed her body against Rhiannon's, muffling her cries against her lover's neck. 

Rhiannon wrapped her arms around Lina's waist and slid her hands gently over the other woman's back. As the tremors that racked Lina's body subsided, Rhiannon lowered her leg, wincing a little as her thigh muscle protested. The bathwater was still fairly warm, and the pretty woman thought absently that her one foot must be nearly as wrinkled as a hundred-year-old woman's from prolonged submersion. 

Lina's hands relaxed; she raised her flushed face and looked into her lover's pale blue eyes, a small, satiated smile on her lips. 

Rhiannon grinned back. "Feeling a bit less peckish, I hope?," she asked, smoothing a strand of inky hair from Lina's forehead. Rhiannon tried to keep her tone as normal as possible, but her legs trembled a little. She knew all the moisture that slicked her thigh was not Lina's alone. 

Lina's eyes glowed and she raised her brows, giving her lover a look of pure wickedness. "On the contrary, my dear," she replied huskily, "My appetite is as keen as ever." 

Oh dear, Rhiannon thought, and gasped when she felt the powerful muscles in Lina's arms and back shift... 

Her wail of protest was clearly heard by the servants downstairs: "No, Lina! W-a-a-a-ait!!" 

There was a mighty splash and a small wave of soapy water gurgled from beneath the closed bathroom door. 

Lina sat and combed Rhiannon's still wet hair carefully as the pretty secretary enthusiastically consumed a somewhat delayed breakfast. She might be small in stature, the peer thought, but my sweetheart certainly makes up for it in appetite!

"Mmph. Lina," Rhiannon asked, swallowing a bite of toast hastily, "when do you want to go to Mr. Grimes office?" 

"Oh, I suppose we can go this afternoon, if you wish. I certainly have no other plans." Lina continued to comb Rhiannon's hair, marveling at the silken texture and the color. Like a sheet of flame, she thought bemused. 

"Is there any correspondence to attend to?" 

"Not of any pressing importance, my dear." 

Rhiannon finally stopped eating and turned around to face Lina. "Is something wrong? You've been so... quiet lately," she said, eyes narrowed with concern. 

The dark haired woman sighed. "Nothing at all, my dear. And that is the trouble." 

"Oh...," Rhiannon breathed, comprehension dawning on her sweet heart-shaped face. Lady Evangeline, besides her role as the most important person in the secretary's life, also pursued inquiries - mostly criminal - in the manner of her friend and mentor, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. 

Lina laid the silver comb on the dressing table. "I am afraid that the investigative season has been quite dull of late. After retrieving the Madman's Tarot last Christmas, there has been a dearth of clients requiring my services." 

"What about Holmes? Surely he's found something to do by now." 

The peer sighed again. Responding to Rhiannon's insistent touch on her shoulders, Lina turned around to allow the other woman to comb out her long raven-black locks. "Poor Holmes. Since Watson's marriage in May, he has not done a thing save sit and sulk in Baker Street, befouling the atmosphere with his pipe, shooting holes in the walls and sawing away on that violin of his till all hours." 

Rhiannon stifled a chuckle. Really, she thought, Holmes and Lina are so much alike! When Lina gets all broody, she squats in the study like a monument to Patience, smoking those little brown cigarettes and swilling brandy like a Port Sayiid sailor!

Lina continued, "Well, I can only hope to find some morsel of comfort in the mystery which presented itself this morning. I refer, of course, to the notice in the Agony Columns." 

"Of course." Rhiannon did not trust herself to speak further; tears gathered at the corners of her eyes as she caught her lip between her teeth, trying not to laugh out loud at Lina's sulky tone. 

The peer frowned slightly; she could sense something happening behind her, but soon, the rhythmic stroking of the comb through her hair had its usual soothing effect. Closing her eyes, Lina forced the tense muscles in her neck to relax. 

Both women wore dressing gowns; on Sunday mornings, they enjoyed breakfast in the privacy of their rooms, much to the amusement of the servants - who had more than an inkling as to what the two women enjoyed, besides eggs and bacon. 

Rhiannon's gown was particularly becoming; of robin's egg blue silk trimmed with ruffles and ribbons, the material was light and thin - perfect for the June heat. 

Lina opened her eyes and looked down at her left hand. The ring she wore, a simple band of gold set with an emerald flanked by pale blue topaz, had belonged to Rhiannon's great-grandmother. The other woman had given it to her as a pledge of their love several months ago and Lina had not taken it off since. I have not yet given my poor sweetheart my own pledge, Lina thought, but that will soon be remedied.

Turning around (and ignoring a small twinge of pain as the comb inadvertently tore through a tangle), Lina grasped one of Rhiannon's fine boned hands in her own and said, "If I asked you to accompany me today on an unknown journey for an unknown purpose, and refused to answer any questions regarding that subject, would you be terribly offended? " 

Rhiannon looked at her in astonishment. "I... I suppose not. No, I wouldn't be offended. Just... well, curious." And a little apprehensive, she continued silently, but I wouldn't for all the world hurt Lina's feelings.

Lina smiled and Rhiannon's heart pounded a little faster. "Excellent! Then immediately following our trip to Mr. Grimes' office, my dear, we shall have an adventure!" 

Rhiannon returned her lover's smile, but inwardly, she wondered, What on earth is she up to now?

CHAPTER TWO

The solicitor's office within the Temple, that mighty edifice to British justice, was small and cramped, piled with documents, books and files. Jeremy Grimes, Esq., turned out to be a needle-thin, mincing individual whose mouse-brown hair had receded drastically, leaving him with a band of thinning locks that curled around his ears, revealing a shining bald dome that reflected the room's gaslight like a mirror. 

Rhiannon shifted in her seat and glanced at Lina. At her insistence, the peer had forgone her originally intended costume of a man's suit and had instead donned a prettily appropriate visiting gown of pale spring green, the be-ribboned skirts covered with tiny embroidered daisies. A straw hat was tilted becomingly over one emerald-green eye; when Lina noticed Rhiannon's stare, she winked surreptitiously, startling a giggle from the strawberry-blonde. 

Grimes shot them both a glance from his chocolate brown eyes and cleared his throat. "Thank you for coming, ladies," he said. "Now, to begin our business, let me first state that I am completely satisfied as to your identity, Miss... er, Moore. Lady St. Claire is a well known and highly regarded member of the peerage; her word alone is sufficient." His manner was fawning in the extreme; it was painfully obvious the solicitor considered Lady Evangeline the more important of his two visitors. 

Lina said, "Thank you, Mr. Grimes. When Miss Moore informed me of your notice in the Times, I at once saw the problematic issue of proper identification and insisted on accompanying her here. I knew there would be no difficulty then." She did not notice Grimes' manner; the peer was too caught up in excitement, eagerly anticipating what she confidently expected would be good news for her wife and lover. 

Rhiannon muffled a snort. Lina is no better regarded among her peers than a leper, she thought. That social snob means he was overwhelmed by Lina's charm and aristocratic manner - not to mention her title and wealth.

Grimes shuffled some of the papers on his desk. "Now then, allow me to explain why I inserted a notice into the Times." 

"Yes, please!" Rhiannon said. "I'm simply dying to know what's going on!" 

"To be sure," Grimes answered dryly, barely looking at the strawberry blonde. "I was contacted several weeks ago by a solicitor in Scotland, Sir Gregory MacLellan of Montrose Abbey. He requested my assistance in locating you, miss. It seems as though your Great-Aunt, Margaret Gloriana Kincaid, has recently passed away, and you are named as one of the beneficiaries in her will." 

"You see, my dear," Lina said, "I told you! My word, this is exciting!" She grabbed Rhiannon's hand and squeezed. 

Rhiannon smiled slightly but her brows drew together in puzzlement. "I don't remember any Great-Aunts, Margaret or otherwise," she said. "Do you have any further details, Mr. Grimes?" 

Grimes was silent; Rhiannon slowly flushed when she realized that the solicitor was ignoring her query, clearly waiting for Lina to say something. Rhiannon jerked her hand away from her lover's and folded gloved fingers together in her lap, hurt but unwilling to break down in front of the supercilious little man. 

Lady Evangeline's emerald green eyes moved from Rhiannon's face to Grimes'; the deadly look she gave the solicitor made him gulp nervously. Grimes realized he had made a serious error in believing the secretary to be unimportant; lowering his eyes to the papers clutched in his hands, he stared at them as if he hoped they would provide some means of escape. 

Grimes' voice shook a little as he replied, "I fear I have no real details to give you, Miss Moore." His tone was very, very polite; the peer's eyes were boring a scorching hole in the top of his head and he resisted the impulse to pull out a handkerchief and wipe his suddenly sweaty dome. 

He continued, "Sir Gregory forwarded to me the names of your father and mother, as well as his request. I was able to trace your movements up until a few years ago, following your father's death. At that point, my only recourse was the Times notice, which I hoped would bring some result. Regarding the disposal of your Great-Aunt's will, the only other information I can give you is that Sir Gregory has stated that you must travel to his estate in Scotland for the reading; failure to follow this stricture will result in the forfeiture of any benefits." 

Lady Evangeline cleared her throat. "I see," she said, her tone icily polite. "And where might we find this Sir Gregory MacLellan?" 

Grimes shuffled more papers frantically; at this point, he would have cheerfully sold his soul to the Devil in order to make those dagger-like green eyes stop staring at him. "Er... ah, here it is!," he answered with relief. "Montrose Abbey is Sir Gregory's recent estate; it is located approximately fifty miles northeast of Dundee, near Kinnaird Castle and his father's own estate, Templemoor." 

"I see," Lina said again. She picked up her reticule and stood, arranging her skirts with one hand. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Grimes. Good afternoon." 

Rhiannon rose as well; her heart-shaped face still flushed but not from hurt feelings anymore - she was struggling to keep from laughing at the frightened look on the solicitor's face. The man's clearly terrified of Lina, she thought. Why, he looks like a calf who's just found out what gelding means!

The strawberry-blonde woman, trying to maintain her composure, took some little time to adjust the skirts of her own costume - a "surprise" dress of gunmetal-gray whose sides had been folded back to expose the colorfully embroidered rose-red reveres. 

As she bit her lower lip, Rhiannon heard Lina say, "And one other thing, Mr. Grimes? I trust that you will be so kind as to have a copy of all the paperwork regarding this matter forwarded to my address in Grosvenor Square." Her tone made it clear that this was not a request, but a demand, and her eyes flashed dangerously. 

Grimes ran one finger around the collar of his shirt; it was suddenly far too tight. "Why, yes, of course milady," he replied nervously, "I shall see to it at once. Immediately!" His entire face gleamed with sweat and the dull black suit he wore was soaked in circles of perspiration underneath the arms. Lady Evangeline's eyes flamed with the pride of centuries of aristocracy - a glare from her is rather like being bludgeoned with Dubrett's Peerage, Grimes thought wildly. 

"Thank you. Come along, Rhiannon," the peer said as her sensitive ears registered the strangled guffaw that escaped her lover's lips when Grimes closed his eyes and sighed in relief at this announcement. "We have further business this afternoon." 

Threading her arm through Rhiannon's, Lady Evangeline guided her companion swiftly through the winding labyrinth of hallways and offices that made up the Temple and managed to get her into the carriage before Rhiannon's control broke and she collapsed into Lina's arms, hooting madly. 

"D-d-did you see the l-l-look on his face?," Rhiannon stuttered through her giggles, "H-h-e looked like a p-p-poleaxed cow!" 

Lina sniggered. "That pompous ass," she said smugly, "I would rather have punched him in the nose, my dear, but felt him unworthy of the effort. Still, I think I managed to discompose him somewhat. I have been told that my stare should be registered with Scotland Yard as a deadly weapon." 

She reached up one gloved hand to bounce the curls that framed her beautiful face in a theatrical gesture of feminine triumph as Rhiannon guffawed. 

"How'd you l-l-learn to do that?" Rhiannon wheezed, one arm wrapped around her own stomach. 

The peer smiled, green eyes twinkling with mischief. "Heredity, my dear. My family line has always had many skills." 

The strawberry-blonde woman collapsed again. 

Lady Evangeline rapped on the roof of the carriage with one fist and said loudly, "Henry? Drive on, man. You know our destination!" 

The carriage lurched down the cobblestoned streets and pedestrians were treated to the strains of wild laughter pealing from the open windows. 

CHAPTER THREE

The two women alighted from the carriage and Rhiannon clapped her hands together in surprise. "Oh, Lina!" she exclaimed, "Paddington Station! Are we going somewhere?" 

The taller woman smiled. "Remember, my dear, I did warn you - I shall answer no questions. You will have to wait and see." 

Rhiannon's eyes ran over the magnificent facade of the railway station. Paddington had opened in 1851, deliberately coinciding with the Universal Exhibition on view at the Crystal Palace in Hyde Park. The heroic lines of the building were the creation of two engineering geniuses, I.K. Brunel and Matthew Wyatt; while the two men collaborated on the even more elaborate St. Pancras station twenty years later - to Rhiannon, Paddington was one of the wonders of the modern world. 

Father sometimes brought me here as a special treat when I a child, she thought, eyes wide with wonder as Lina guided her into the building. He'd take me inside where all the people bustled across the marble floor, and I'd listen and imagine adventures in far away lands.

Lady Evangeline looked down at her partner's dreamy face and chuckled, adroitly avoiding being jostled by the crowds that flowed through the busy terminal. Wait until she notices where we are going, the peer thought. Then we shall see if she wakes a little.

Rhiannon protested as Lina led her out of the building and into the rail yard, "But..." 

The peer stopped and put one finger on the other woman's lips. "No questions, dearheart. We shall arrive at our destination shortly." 

They walked along for ten minutes , Rhiannon gazing at the magnificent steam trains that huffed their way in and out of the station or merely sat idle on a siding, waiting their turn to devour the miles of steel tracks that snaked like arteries throughout Great Britain and beyond. 

A long, private car sat on a section of the track; as they drew closer, Rhiannon's eyes widened in astonishment while Lina chuckled. 

Enameled in royal blue, the car bore a name etched in gilt along its side. Lina stopped opposite the magnificent car and read proudly, "The Princess Bride. She is yours, my dear." 

Rhiannon could not believe her eyes... or her ears. She clutched Lina's arm and stammered, "B-b-but... Lina, what is this?" 

"Since you have indicated a desire to travel, sweetheart, I thought a private train car might facilitate matters considerably. Come inside, Rhiannon. Take possession of your new kingdom." 

Lina withdrew a key from her reticule and opened the door, ushering her wife inside. The interior of the car was a study in opulence. Rhiannon's wide gaze traveled over the inlaid mahogany and tulipwood panels that covered the walls, painted with graceful images from Shakespeare's 'A Midsummer Night's Dream.' 

There's Oberon, she thought, staring entranced at a gloriously vivid pagan figure crowned with mistletoe, and Titania with poppies wound through her hair.

Plush blue carpeting covered the floor; gaslight sconces had been wrought into fanciful trees where enameled birds perched and stretched their tiny wings, beaks open in imaginary song. 

Rhiannon stepped further inside, Lina directly behind her. The arched ceiling was painted with morning glory vines, and the blue velvet curtains that hung over every window were looped back with tasseled gold ropes. 

The first part of the car was meant to be a sitting room, she realized numbly. Louis XVI chairs, a divan, and a fringed settee and ottoman, along with gilded console tables and a small cellarette or liquor cabinet against one wall made that function obvious. 

"Now see here, my dear, how clever this all is," Lina said, drawing the dumbstruck secretary into another room. This was a lavatory, complete with claw-footed tub, porcelain sink painted with even more morning glories, mirrors and a toilet hidden discreetly behind a cunning screen of pierced bamboo. The floor was tiled in a mosaic pattern, an underwater scene of brightly colored fishes and corals. 

"Yes, my dear," Lina nattered away, "Running water, as well. I understand it is stored in that small tank on top of the car and heated by the action of the sun. Quite clever, these modern engineers. Nearly all the comforts of home, I must say, even if that tub is a little small for two." 

Rhiannon listened to her lover's chatter but was too overcome by emotion to respond. She could only nod as Lina drew her back through the sitting room and into another compartment. This one was a bedroom - but what a bedroom! The ceiling, painted dark blue, was set with shimmering paste diamonds; when the gaslight was lowered, they would sparkle like the stars in the night sky. 

The strawberry-blonde gasped. The bed itself was a fairy-tale confection of pale blue linens and lace; the posters had been fashioned into miniature trees, every detail cunningly manufactured down to the silk leaves that rustled gently. 

The carpet underfoot was dark green, and the walls had been painted with a mural of a forest scene, complete with a knight on horseback, his wimpled lady behind him, trotting down a country lane to the castle whose bright pennants fluttered against a gloriously blue sky. Rhiannon noticed her cheeks were wet and realized she was crying. 

"Oh, my dear!" Lina said anxiously, daubing at her wife's face with a handkerchief, "Do please tell me that you like it." 

Rhiannon raised eyes that shimmered with tears and nearly giggled at the anxious expression on Lina's face. She threw her arms around the peer's neck and hugged her fiercely. "Oh, I love it! I love it, Lina! I do!" 

Reassured, Lina hugged the other woman back, planting a kiss on the top of Rhiannon's head. "It was my pleasure, my dear. And I meant what I said about the Princess being yours. The certificates of ownership are in your name." 

Rhiannon looked up into Lina's dark emerald eyes. "Mine? You're giving her to me?" 

"Of course, my dear. Consider it a wedding present from one devoted wife to another." 

The strawberry blonde woman was too astonished to say anything. Rhiannon gaped as Lina loosened her grip and sank to one knee, pale green skirts billowing around her. 

Reaching into one pocket of her dress, Lina withdrew a small Limoges box shaped like a baroque wedding cake. Opening it, she held it up so Rhiannon could see the object that sparkled within. 

The heavy gold ring had been shaped into a phoenix, the bird's wings curving around to form the band. Its eyes were rose-cut sapphires and it held a magnificent pearl in its beak. 

Lina took the ring from the box with fingers that trembled slightly. She caught Rhiannon's left hand and slid the ring onto the third finger, remarking in a shaking voice, "The phoenix is one of my family crests, my dear. Charles Tiffany oversaw the design himself." 

Taking a deep breath, Lina continued, "Rhiannon...," and stopped when her lover's eyes locked onto her own. Gulping, she squeaked, "Will you have me, my dear?" 

Rhiannon looked down at her hand; the phoenix band was thick enough that the pearl rested against her knuckle. Then she looked at Lina's own left hand, where her great-grandmother's ring shimmered.

"Of course I'll have you, you great booby," Rhiannon said with a laugh, although tears coursed over her cheeks. "Now get up here and kiss me before I die!" 

Lina flowed up from the carpet and her lips covered Rhiannon's own in a soft kiss that deepened until both women were breathless. 

"Oh, my," Rhiannon half-whispered after the kiss ended, "Much more of that and we'll have no choice but to test out the new bed." 

The peer grinned, an ebony brow raised nearly to her hairline. "As to that...," she began, but Rhiannon pulled away, shaking one finger. 

"Not now!" the strawberry blonde chided, "First, you have to give me the Cook's tour of the rest of this car. And then... we'll see!," she concluded, laughing at Lina's crestfallen expression. 

Lina squared her broad shoulders with a sigh. "Whatever you wish, my dear," she said. "I will have you know that I shall greatly enjoy my new role as a henpecked wife." 

"Henpecked?" Rhiannon retorted with mock outrage. "I'll have you know, Lady St. Claire, that I've never pecked a hen in my life!" 

Lina chuckled. "Come along then, my beauty. I shall regale you with the wonders of your new possession until you grow weary and then," she continued with a leer, "I will tuck you into bed and sing you a lullaby." 

Rhiannon's lips drew up into a smile. "And does this lullaby you have in mind contain the words, 'Dear Sweet Jesus' and 'Right there, sweetheart?'" she teased. 

Lina swallowed a laugh. "It may, my dear. It may." She sobered, and continued, "Rhiannon, I love you. Everything I am, everything I have is yours. Although our wedlock may not be recognized by the Church of England, nevertheless... I want you to know that I take the vows I have given you quite seriously. As long as I live, you will be the bride of my heart." 

Rhiannon wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I love you, Evangeline. You're my world and I can't imagine living without you. If God condemns me for loving you, I'll gladly turn my back on Heaven to lie on your breast in Hell. You've given me so much... and... oh, Lina! I love you!," she finished with a sob. 

Lina gathered her wife into her arms and kissed away the tears that rolled from beneath her closed eyelids... 

Eventually, the bed was pronounced more than adequate for their needs.

CHAPTER FOUR

Later that evening, back at Grosvenor Square in time for dinner meal, Lina remarked, "Shall we take the Princess to Scotland, do you think?" 

Rhiannon put down the roll she had been buttering. "Whatever you wish, love." 

The peer's dark brows raised. "Love?" she asked. "My dear, I believe that is the first time you have used something other than my name to call me by." 

Rhiannon blushed. "Do you mind?" she asked. 

"Not at all. In fact, you have my utmost approval. You may call me anything you like, dearheart." Lina's eyes sparkled with affection. She took another sip of wine and asked, "When would you like to leave for Scotland? I shall need a little time to make the necessary arrangements." 

"You know, Lina, I still have no idea who this woman is, or rather, was. I vaguely remember that Mother used to get letters from Scotland but she never told me who they were from. After...," she stopped to gulp down the sudden lump in her throat before continuing, "after she died, father never mentioned them." Or her for that matter, she concluded silently, remembering how her father had withered away after his beloved wife's death, eventually taking his own life in despair. 

Lina frowned. "I suppose we shall be required to journey to Scotland to find the answer to this little mystery. Oh, well. I do not mind at all, my dear. A holiday is just the thing I need. Perhaps," she said with a twinkle, "we could consider it a honeymoon." 

"Perhaps," Rhiannon replied with an answering smile, but inwardly mused, I still have no idea who Great-Aunt Margaret was... and I hope Sir Gregory has the answers.

Five days later, Rhiannon lay stretched on the plush divan in their private railcar as it speeded through the countryside; the 'Princess Bride' was coupled to The Flying Scotsman steam train bound for Edinburgh. She was deeply engrossed in a shilling-shocker, The Castle of Otrano; the Gothic novel, brimming with supernatural suspense, kept her spellbound. 

Lina stifled a chuckle at Rhiannon's choice of literature. Give my dear some blood-and-thunder novel filled with vengeful spirits, haunted castles and assorted creatures of the night, she thought, and she is lost to the world. 

 The dark-haired woman turned back to her own book, a first edition of John Donne's poetry that Rhiannon had given her for Christmas. She murmured a couplet from his letter to the Countess of Salisbury in 1614, "Fair, great and good since seeing you we see; what Heaven can do and what any Earth can be." Lina sighed and closed the book, keeping her place marked with one finger. 

Rhiannon glanced up from her novel; the sound of the other woman's soft voice had distracted her from a particularly thrilling passage. "Lina? Is something the matter?" 

"Oh, no, sweetheart, nothing at all. I simply adore Donne's poetry." 

Rhiannon sat up, her entranced mood broken; the castle and its supernatural inhabitants receded into the distance. Perhaps Lina is bored, she thought. I shall have to think of a way to entertain her.

Although they were in a private car, Rhiannon was fully dressed, since the conductor of the train had the right to enter at any time he chose, although passengers from the public cars could not. The conductor usually exercised this privilege upon arriving or leaving stations. 

The secretary had chosen one of her loose Liberty gowns of palest ivory; the unstructured dress, worn with a minimum of underthings (in fact, Rhiannon wore nothing under it at all except a pair of white stockings) had a collar and cuffs of contrasting harvest gold, full skirts decorated with a swirl of dark gold ribbon. 

Her strawberry-blonde hair was down and fell down her back in loose waves, held away from her heart-shaped face by a pair of tortoiseshell combs. "Why don't you read me some poetry, Lina?," she asked, tossing her book aside. "I adore the sound of your voice." 

Lina smiled. "Thank you, my dear. If you wish." She quickly scanned the volume seeking something suitable. Lina wore a loose dressing gown of fir green silk, so carelessly tied that the alabaster globes of her breasts could be clearly seen. She sprawled on the settee, heedless of the way her undignified position exposed her own lack of undergarments. 

While Lady Evangeline flipped through the pages of her book, Rhiannon's eyes suddenly locked on the tiny tuft of ebony hair that peeped from between the peer's exposed thighs. 

Unconsciously licking her lips, Rhiannon narrowed her gaze, trying to see more - but the folds of the robe were in the way. Still, somehow, she found that minimal sight more stimulating than Lina's nakedness. 

Rhiannon leaned forward a little, clasping her hands loosely in front of her. "Um, Lina?," she asked, "When is the next stop?" 

Lina replied in an abstract way, "In about an hour and a quarter, dearheart." The peer's emerald eyes lit on a particularly moving passage and she thought, Ah! This might be suitable.

She shifted her legs a little and one edge of her robe fell away, exposing even more of her dark thatch and pale, firm belly. Rhiannon's mouth began to water.. 

"Since now your beauty shines," Lina read, "now when the Sun, grown stale, is to so low a value run; that his disheveled beams and scattered fires serve but for ladies periwigs and tyres in lover's sonnets; you come to repair God's book of creatures, teaching what is fair..." 

Rhiannon interrupted. "Stay there, love. I'll be right back," she said, leaping up from the divan and hurrying out of the sitting room. 

Lady Evangeline frowned a little, wondering what the other woman might be up to, then shrugged and continued scanning the passage. 

When Rhiannon returned a quarter-hour later, Lina looked up and gasped in surprise and appreciation, dropping the book of poetry unnoticed to the floor. 

Her lover was naked except for a pair of white stockings held up by frilly garters and the long, red-gold hair that sheathed her body like a fascinating shawl, allowing bits of white flesh to peek through as she swayed through the room. Her phoenix wedding ring flashed in the sunlight. 

In her hands, Rhiannon held a silver salver piled with cold roast pheasant, Stilton cheese, grapes, strawberries, bread and honey; also, a chilled bottle of Madeira - a sweet white wine - and two cut-glass goblets.

She smiled at the gaping Lina and said, "I thought a picnic lunch might be nice." The railcar had a tiny kitchen in the back; Cook had stocked it before they left with foodstuffs that could be eaten cold. 

Lina sat up, running her hands through her hair. "Of course, my dear," she said, sliding down from the settee to sit cross-legged on the floor, "Whatever you wish." 

Rhiannon gracefully sank down to the floor, sitting in the more ladylike "side-saddle" position, her legs together and to one side, weight balanced on one hip. She placed the platter between them and poured the wine, feeling a tiny jolt of electricity flare when, handing the glass to her lover, Lina's hand brushed hers. 

Lina cocked her head to one side speculatively. Hmmm, she thought, when my beloved's eyes have that gleam, I know she is up to something exciting.

The dark-haired woman decided to play along, knowing that Rhiannon could be quite creative when she was in the mood. 

Rhiannon could not tear her eyes away from the view; in Lina's current unladylike position - the edges of her robe flared on either side of her bare legs - the crisp, ebony triangle between her muscular thighs was fully visible. Rhiannon took a gulp of wine, barely tasting it. 

Lina sipped her own wine and waited, eyes dark with desire. She schooled herself to patience, determined to play out her lover's game until the end. 

Rhiannon picked up a strawberry and brought it to her mouth, running the succulent berry around her lips before biting into it, pink juices flowing down her chin. Wiping her chin with her hand, she pushed her fingers into her mouth and sucked them, eyes alert for her lover's reaction. 

Lina's lips quirked into a half-smile. Ah, she thought, now I know the game!

Lina leaned forward, knowing full well this action would expose her breasts, and picked up a thin slice of pheasant breast. Folding the meat into a thin roll, she nibbled it lovingly, using her teeth and tongue, while Rhiannon watched, heart pounding. 

When Lina finished, Rhiannon took a grape between her lips and leaned forward herself, offering the tempting bit of fruit; a thrill flashed all the way to her core as she felt the other woman's lips on her own, Lina's tongue scooping up the grape and then exploring, plunging deeply into her mouth. Rhiannon whimpered a little when her lover withdrew. 

The dark-haired woman sat back, chewing; her beautiful face bore a smile but her dark rose nipples were strained erect and a tell-tale glistening on her inner thighs spoke eloquently of her own desire. 

Lina selected a small roll and tore a bit off with her fingers. Dipping the crust into the honey, she brought it to Rhiannon's lips, heedless of the way the amber liquid drizzled on the other woman's chin. 

Rhiannon took it in her mouth, eyes closing when Lina sensuously licked the honey from her face, each delicate sweep of her lover's tongue sending thrills down every nerve in her body. 

When Lina finished, Rhiannon took a small piece of crumbly cheese and smeared it along the upper slope of one breast, pale eyes glowing like jewels. Lina's mouth descended hungrily, her lips blazing a trail of fire on Rhiannon's body. 

The strawberry-blonde gripped her lover's upper arms tightly but quickly let go when Lina almost fell over into the tray in her quest to lick every morsel of Stilton from her wife's body. 

After pushing the tray aside impatiently, Lina dabbled her fingers in the jar of honey. The dark-haired woman smeared the sticky sweet liquid on her own nipple, looking at Rhiannon with a raised brow. Rhiannon could smell Lina's excitement; the musky-sweet scent of her lover sent a cascade of liquid heat flowing from the strawberry-blonde. 

With a small growl, Rhiannon sat up on her knees and locked her lips around the peer's turgid nipple, licking the honey smeared nub and lashing it with her tongue, then gripping it between her teeth and tugging gently but firmly, knowing Lina enjoyed such quasi-rough play. 

Lina closed her eyes and moaned as the other woman suckled fiercely; a wave of near unbearable pleasure lanced through her, and she felt hot moisture dampen her ebon curls. She put both hands on the back of Rhiannon's head and arched her back, wishing she'd thought to put honey on the other nipple as well. 

Rhiannon released Lina's breast and whispered huskily, "I think we should finish with dessert, don't you?" She scooped up two fingerfuls of honey and smiled seductively. 

Lina sat up and snatched a handful of strawberries. "Ladies first," she purred.

It was indeed fortunate that the conductor did not disturb the two women's afternoon. 

CHAPTER FIVE

When they arrived at Edinburgh, the two women had their baggage transferred to a local train; the Princess Bride would remain in the Edinburgh rail yard until they left Scotland. The local train, despite making numerous stops, eventually let them off at Dundee in the early afternoon; hot, tired and slightly nauseous from the smell of sheep being carried in the stockcar directly behind their compartment. 

At the Dundee station, Lady Evangeline and Rhiannon found Sir Gregory's carriage, a battered four-wheel brougham, waiting for them, manned by a somewhat surly individual who introduced himself as Jamie McPherson, the "laird's mun." 

All of Rhiannon's attempts at polite conversation failed; McPherson was a stolid, taciturn man with a cast in one eye that gave the impression of untrustworthiness. His sandy-brown hair was touched by silver, face weather-beaten and seamed with decades spent laboring in open fields under the sun. 

McPherson answered all questions with a monosyllable: "Yer," meaning Yes, and "Nur," meaning No. Beyond that, his conversational skills were completely lacking. After making several attempts, Rhiannon finally desisted, settling herself back onto the carriage seat with a bump. 

Scowling, Rhiannon muttered, "Unfriendly sod, isn't he?" 

Lady Evangeline laughed. "My dear," she replied, "did your mother never tell you not to make such faces, lest they freeze that way?" 

In answer, Rhiannon crossed both eyes and stuck out her tongue. 

Lina reached out and grabbed the errant tongue between two fingers. "Now, now," she chided mildly, "you know better than to tempt me in public, sweetheart. What if I am unable to contain my lustful passions? We might shock the life out of poor McPherson - not to mention frightening the horses." 

Rhiannon giggled and pulled her tongue from the other woman's grasp. "We could always ask him to pull the carriage off the road for a while," she said, pale blue eyes alight with glee, "I'm sure he'd enjoy the opportunity to commune with nature while we... hmm... examine the native flora?" 

Lina pulled Rhiannon into a close embrace, settling the other woman's head on her broad shoulder. "My dearest sweetheart," she replied, kissing her lover's forehead softly, "I promise that we shall make love beneath the stars; only, not right at this moment. I fear I am still striving to recover from our 'picnic lunch."' 

With a small, triumphant smile, Rhiannon snuggled her face into Lina's neck, inhaling her distinctive rose-lilac perfume. "I'm glad you enjoyed it," she said with a snicker, "I know I certainly did." 

Lady Evangeline snorted. "Yes, and I am quite certain most of the passengers on The Flying Scotsman know it as well, my dear." 

Rhiannon squeezed her lover tightly. "I'm not the only loud one in the family, love." 

The peer said thoughtfully, "True." She knew her own body still bore a few bruises from their exciting lunch escapade. And not a few of those marks I caused myself, she mused, remembering with a slight blush how uninhibited she became when she felt her wife's body sliding against her own. 

"My dear," Lina murmured, "If I ever become too old or too indifferent to be excited by your numerous charms, do please send for the undertaker's men and hold a quiet funeral." 

Rhiannon kissed the dark-haired woman's neck. "I will not. I'll just go out and find someone younger and much less wrinkled for you to play with, because I'll be old and decrepit, too." 

The two women kissed, cuddled, and held one another throughout the journey to their ultimate destination - the mysterious Montrose Abbey. 

Sir Gregory MacLellan was a stout, florid faced man in his late forties; a bristling walrus-like mustache hung from his upper lip, joined by heavy, old-fashioned muttonchop sideburns. 

"Ladies!," he cried expansively when the carriage rolled to a stop in front of the impressive manor house, "Welcome to Montrose Abbey!" 

Lady Evangeline helped her lover out of the carriage, smiling at  Rhiannon's gasp of appreciation when her sky-blue eyes lit on the magnificent stone edifice of the Abbey. 

It was an upright structure, consisting of a central keep flanked by round towers of pale gray stone. Montrose Abbey had been built on a wide spit of land that thrust into the waters of Scurdie Ness; the lake shimmered in the late afternoon sun like a silver coin. 

In the front of the manor, rhododendron bushes provided splashes of bright pink, red and white; a small marble fountain, graced by a bronze statue of Diana the Huntress, shot a sparkling stream of water into the air. 

Sir Gregory advanced, one hand outthrust. "My dear Miss Moore," he said, dark blue eyes twinkling, "I am most heartily glad to make your acquaintance." Eyeing the dark-haired woman who stood to one side, he asked, "And who is your lovely companion?" 

Rhiannon took the laird's hand and smiled. "Sir Gregory, this is Lady Evangeline St. Claire, my... employer," she finished, flashing her amused lover a warning look. 

Lady Evangeline quirked her lips but said nothing more than, "I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Sir Gregory. Miss Moore is my secretary, and as I am not familiar with this part of Scotland, I prevailed upon her to allow me to accompany her to this beautiful place." 

Sir Gregory laughed. "Yes," he said, "the land hereabouts is quite beautiful, but I'd advise you not to wander too far into the wood, Lady Evangeline. It's quite easy to get lost; at least once a year we are required to form a search party for some wandering crofter's child. Now, come in, come in! I'm sure you're both exhausted from your journey." 

They followed him into the house. Montrose Abbey had been built on an expansive scale; the heavy beams that criss-crossed the ceiling of the front room were nearly thirty feet above Rhiannon's head. All the furnishings were massive and dark; stone walls were paneled in mahogany and teak, covered with framed landscapes and hunting scenes. Antique weapons from many countries and nations glittered with other trophies of bloodthirsty sport. An obsidian knife in particular caught Rhiannon's eye; the black glass blade sported cruel jags and serrations; she shivered, knowing instinctively that the weapon had never been intended for use on animals. 

Antlered deer heads with glassy eyes stared down at them, along with tusked boars, moose and an enormous stuffed bear that reared ferociously in one corner of the massive room. The rough rock fireplace was big enough, Rhiannon thought with astonishment, to roast a brace of oxen, much less a single cow. Despite the summer heat, a fire cracked on the iron grate. 

At the foot of the gracefully winding staircase, Sir Gregory halted. "I will have my housekeeper, Mrs. Dalyrymple, show you to your quarters. I hope you do not mind, but I chose chambers for the two of you that are inter-connected. I felt it would be more convenient." 

Lina and Rhiannon exchanged a glance. "Not at all," the peer said, "We appreciate your thoughtfulness." 

"I shall see you at the evening meal," Sir Gregory concluded as the housekeeper shuffled into view. "after which there will be the reading of the will. Until then, ladies, please be my guests. If you require anything, you have only to ring." He waddled away,  hands interlaced over his prominent belly, toying with his pocketwatch chain. 

Mrs. Dalyrymple was a small, bent woman; her silver hair was wrapped in a chokingly tight chignon at the back of her neck. She wore a black, high-collar dress and a white apron; other than the enormous mourning ring on her left hand, the housekeeper had no other adornment. 

She led the way slowly up the staircase, remarking on the second floor landing, "Yon's ta armor o' Lord Geoffrey Kirk, Earl o' Montrose, him what built ta Abbey." 

Rhiannon looked dutifully at the massive suit of armor that held a tall, double-headed axe in one gauntlet. "He must have been an enormous man," she said. A crimson plume shivered on the pointed helm, touched by some unknown breeze. 

"Aye," Mrs. Dalyrymple replied, laboring up another flight of stairs, "Fer that he was called ta Giant o' Montrose; near seven feet tall he was, an' his lady wife nobbut a wee slip of a lass." 

"Really," Lina murmured. "A giant, eh?" She waggled her brows at Rhiannon behind the housekeeper's back and the strawberry-blonde stifled a giggle. 

They passed up another flight of stairs then down a long hallway lined with doors; tapestries and banners featuring ancient heraldic devices hung on the walls. Sconces were set at eye level and filled the gloomy hall with softly hissing gaslight. Finally, Mrs. Dalyrymple drew up to one door and fumbled in the pocket of her dress, withdrawing a tarnished key. 

"These be yer rooms, ladies," she said, unlocking the door and throwing it open. 

Rhiannon exclaimed in delight. The room was large and high-ceilinged, the bed a massive four-poster that was so high, a set of small wooden steps had been provided to allow passage up and down from the heaped feather mattresses. The walls were papered a cheerful pink, all the furniture upholstered in bright chintz. Underfoot, a delicate Aubusson rug in pale pastels; a large double window, tiny diamonds of bubbled glass set within a framework of lead, afforded an excellent view of the lake. 

Crossing the room, Mrs. Dalyrymple opened another door and gestured. "An' here be yer own room, lass," she said to Rhiannon. 

The bed in Rhiannon's room was not nearly high as Lina's, nor was it furnished as nicely, but that didn't faze her. Rhiannon knew that she'd end up in Lady Evangeline's bed anyway, as soon as the lights were out and servants had stopped scurrying. So she merely mouthed politely that the room was "just fine." 

Mrs. Dalyrymple said, "Ta bathing chamber's down ta hall, an' tea's served in ta mornings at eight o'clock sharp. Breakfast's at half-past eight down in ta dinin' hall. We'll be havin' dinner at nine this evenin'; Sir Gregory always dresses. An' if you ladies need ennythin', just ring." She nodded at the brocaded bellcord that hung against one wall. 

"Thank you, Mrs. Dalyrymple. You have been of enormous help," Lina said with a charming smile, removing her hat. "I think I will take a nap before dinner, but perhaps you will be kind enough to have a light snack of some kind sent up? It has been a long time since breakfast." 

The housekeeper turned to go. "Aye," she said over her shoulder, "I'll have Molly bring ye up a tray." 

As soon as the door closed, Lady Evangeline began pacing the room, pulling pins from her hair as she walked. "You know, my dear, I am almost positive this house is haunted." 

"Haunted?" Rhiannon's sky-blue eyes went wide. "I thought you said you didn't know anything about Montrose Abbey?" 

Having scattered hairpins carelessly on the heavy mahogany bureau, Lina pulled her hands through her raven-dark hair and breathed a sigh of relief. "I do not," she replied. "But every home that can trace its ancestry back a hundred years or better has some ghost or another flitting about and frightening the servants into fits." 

The peer continued, amusement glittering in her eyes, "I wonder what it will be? A headless knight? A Lady in Green? Some fierce creature risen from the depths of the lake?" 

Rhiannon shivered. As much as she enjoyed reading about ghosts - I think if I ever saw a real one, Lina would have to pry me from the ceiling, she thought. Gooseflesh immediately pebbled her arms and she rubbed them briskly. 

Lady Evangeline stalked towards her partner with a wide smile. "A weeping woman? A little lost child who cries for his mother in the night? Perhaps some awful spirit, seeking revenge from beyond the grave?" She crooked her fingers into claws and advanced on Rhiannon, who gave a little shriek of mock fright and scurried away. 

Before the peer could go any further, however, they were interrupted by a strange voice from the open doorway of Rhiannon's bedchamber. 

"This house is haunted," it said flatly. "And someone will die this very night." 

CHAPTER SIX

Both women turned around to see a teenage girl standing at the inner doorway, smiling sadly. 

She was pale - skin like ice, hair like flax - even her eyes were a pallid, washed-out blue that seemed almost crystalline. The newcomer was dressed in unrelieved white from head to toe and appeared almost like a specter herself. 

"Who...?" Rhiannon began, but was interrupted by their visitor. 

"I'm Violet MacLellan, Sir Gregory's daughter," she said through colorless lips. "You must be Miss Kincaid's great-niece." 

Rhiannon nodded. "Yes. I've come for the reading of the will." 

Violet sighed and came further into the room, drooping down into a chair like a gracefully languid lily. "Yes," she said, "Poor Miss Kincaid. She was ill for such a long time." The girl sighed again and Lady Evangeline cleared her throat. 

"Tell me, Miss MacLellan," she said, sitting down close to the pale girl on a nearby chesterfield, "Why do you say someone is going to die?" 

Violet rolled her colorless eyes towards the peer. "I heard the banshee last night. That means someone in the house will die." 

Rhiannon sat down next to Lina; she did not want to start any rumors, so she refrained from putting her arm around her lover. "What's a banshee?" she asked. 

The girl sat up a bit and clasped her long-fingered hands in her lap. "A banshee," she explained, "is a spirit that wails outside the castle walls to foretell a death." 

"And you have heard this banshee creature yourself?" Lina asked. She pulled out her jade and platinum cigarette case and went through the ritual of lighting one of her favorite Egyptian cigarettes while Violet answered. 

"Yes. I heard it last night. It was terrible!" the girl avowed with a shudder. "The Montrose Banshee is always an omen of death and doom." 

"Where did this banshee come from?" Rhiannon sat back, content to allow her shoulder to press against Lina's while Violet told her story; the teenager's face was animated with a kind of malicious glee, as if she eagerly anticipated a reaction of horror from her listeners. 

"This place was built by Geoffrey, Earl of Montrose," Violet said, "as a wedding gift for his wife, the Lady Eleanor. Lord Geoffrey was a vile man who enjoyed only two things - drink and the hunt - and he frequently indulged in both. 

"One night, when there was a terrible storm, Lady Eleanor berated him for his drunkenness on the second floor landing of the stairs. She was heavy with child, and feared he would break his neck riding across the moors, coming home from ale-crawling with his cronies, leaving her a widow. Despite his cruelty, she loved him, you see. 

"The Earl was enraged. He struck her, and she fell down the stairs, killing both herself and the unborn babe. Lord Geoffrey staggered back up to his bedchamber, caring nothing for his wife but craving another flask of strong drink before retiring. Lady Eleanor lay there at the foot of the stairs, all broken and bleeding, until morning. 

"When the lady's body was discovered, it was judged that she had fallen accidentally. The Earl said nothing to the contrary, and to all appearances, showed true grief at her burial - and ensured her funeral was the finest the county had ever seen, the better to silence wagging tongues. But he felt no remorse, save only that he must marry again to beget an heir. 

"The story does not end there." Violet leaned forward, eyes burning with eagerness and dread. "The night of the next full moon, the Earl was wakened from his slumber by a voice calling his name. Opening his eyes, he beheld his dead wife, and an awful vision she was, all covered with her own blood, chestnut hair whipped as if by a foul wind from Hell. 

"She told him that every night, she would come at the midnight's stroke - every night until the day of his death. She mocked him, and the sound of her wild laughter in his ears nearly drove him mad. 

"Night after night, the Earl was forced to endure his ghostly wife's laughter. He locked himself up in the Tower Room, piling crucifixes, Scriptures and holy relics around him, but to no avail. Lady Eleanor continued to haunt him, and Lord Geoffrey grew to fear the night as other men fear death. 

"This unholy visitation lasted but a month more, for on the morning of the day of the next full moon, the Earl's manservant went up to the Tower Room to fetch his lord's breakfast. And what do you think he saw?" 

Rhiannon, eyes wide, shook her head. In her agitation, she gripped Lina's arm fiercely. "What?" she asked. 

Violet leaned back, a self-satisfied smile on her pallid face. "Why, he saw the Earl himself, hanging from a rafter beam, his blackened face so terrible that the priest who was called to shrive him was compelled to perform an exorcism as well, believing that such a look of terror could only be caused by demons straight from Hell." 

Rhiannon shivered and clutched Lina more tightly, nails digging sharply. With a wince, the peer put her own hand on top of Rhiannon's and pried the rigid fingers loose, murmuring, "Be calm, my dear. I shall require the use of that arm if a banshee comes calling." 

Rhiannon gave her lover a sheepish grin and Violet continued, "Well, that night, all within the Abbey were wakened by a terrible wailing howl. It was Lady Eleanor, who had become the banshee, mourning the Earl's escape from her revenge and venting her fury on the sleeping folk. And so,' she concluded, "from that time on, every time someone hears the Montrose Banshee's wail, it means that a person of the household is sure to die." 

"A fascinating story, Miss MacLellan," Lady Evangeline said. She puffed on her cigarette and tapped the ash into a crystal dish. "And you heard this banshee last night?" 

Violet nodded. "Yes," she said, "last night. I heard it outside my window, clear as day, howling fit to drown out the storm." 

Rhiannon shivered again. "Oh, my! If that had happened to me, I'd be terribly afraid!" 

"You give yourself too little credit, my dear," the dark-haired peer said soothingly, patting her hand. "You can be most brave if you put your mind to it. Remember the Hellfire Club?" 

"The what?" Violet exclaimed, leaning forward. A small spot of febrile color burned on each pale cheek. "That sounds exciting! Do tell me all about it, please!" 

Lina opened her mouth to answer and promptly closed it again when Rhiannon's small but sharp elbow poked her in the ribs. "Ah, no, Miss MacLellan," she said, "quite dull, actually." She yawned ostentatiously and the girl took the hint. 

"Well," Violet said reluctantly, "I'd better go now before Father wonders where I am. It was a pleasure meeting the two of you," she continued as she left, shutting the door behind her. 

Rhiannon turned to Lina. "If you'd told her the story, love, she'd have fallen to the floor, foaming at the mouth. Did you see the look on her face? She's one of those girls who positively relish being scared out of their wits." 

Lina widened her emerald eyes. "Indeed? If I recall, my dear, you were the one who nearly punctured my arm in your distress over Miss Violet's fantastic little tale." 

Rhiannon blushed. "I did not," she denied, "I was just... well, all right," she admitted with a slight smile, "I was excited, too. I do so love a good ghost story, especially one with tragedy and blood and revenge." 

Lady Evangeline put one strong arm around her wife's small shoulders and kissed her on the lips. "Never mind, my dear," she said, "I love you despite your little ways." 

Rhiannon returned the kiss with passion. "I love you, too." 

Pale blue eyes stared into emerald green... until that blissful moment was interrupted by the kitchen maid, Molly, coming to their room with a tray. 

CHAPTER SEVEN

That evening, dinner was served in the vast dining hall. The gleaming oak table could have served forty; Sir Gregory, his daughter and their two guests were clustered together at one end. 

Taking her seat, Lady Evangeline remarked, "An extra place? For the Earl's ghost, Sir Gregory? Or for his wife, perhaps?" 

Sir Gregory laughed. "I see my daughter's been telling tales again. No, milady, that is for Mrs. Babcock, who will hopefully be joining us this evening. Mrs. Babcock was Miss Kincaid's nurse and is also a beneficiary in the will." 

"Ah." Lady Evangeline turned her attention to the soup, while Sir Gregory focused his charm on Rhiannon. His eyes roamed greedily, pink fleshy lips glistening with moisture. 

"You look exquisite, Miss Moore," he said, walrus mustache fluttering. "That frock certainly becomes you." 

Rhiannon dimpled. She wore an off-the-shoulder evening gown of ice blue, glittering with strands of crystal; the huge, puffed net sleeves were scattered with fiery opal chips. The sapphire and diamond bracelet that had been Lina's gift encircled one slender wrist; sapphire and opal earrings swung from her dainty ears. The phoenix wedding ring adorned her finger; Rhiannon would never have considered removing it. 

"Thank you, Sir Gregory," she said. "I have always been particularly fond of blue." 

"It becomes you, Miss Moore. Like green does for your lovely employer." The laird's eyes swiveled to the dark-haired woman seated to his right. 

Lady Evangeline sat up straighter. Her own gown was teal satin, so heavily encrusted with gleaming beads in every shade of viridian that when she breathed, light shimmered and reflected in the crystals, making it seem as if she were clothed in the sea itself. The decolletage was intimidatingly low; nestled in the valley of her breasts was a square-cut emerald in a framework of gold, held up by a strand of beryl moonstones. Like Rhiannon, she wore her own wedding ring of emerald and topaz proudly. 

"Well, it is a shame that men's evening dress is so modest, Sir Gregory," Lina remarked, "Otherwise, I would add my compliments to your own." 

The laird laughed again. His dinner clothes were expensively cut but simple; a black coat, trousers, and blindingly white shirt and tie. On the pinkie finger of his left hand, he wore a large seal ring of onyx, the black stone carved into a snarling wolf's head. He noticed Rhiannon studying it and said, "The emblem of my house, Miss Moore. My father is Lord Thomas, Duke of Templemoor." 

"Where's Templemoor?" Rhiannon asked. 

"About ten miles from here. In truth, the Abbey is not my home. Miss Kincaid became a great friend of my father's, and myself, after purchasing the Abbey five years ago. When she became too ill to manage the estate herself, she asked for my assistance, which I was, of course, only to happy to provide. I keep Violet here as well; my father is not a well man and I fear the child is far to delicate for the sickroom atmosphere that prevails at Templemoor." 

As the footmen cleared away the soup dishes, Violet piped up, "Oh, father! That isn't true! Grandfather Thomas is in excellent health; you said just the other day that you were afraid the old man would outlive you." 

Rhiannon and Lina stifled their snorts in hastily snatched napkins, while the laird's florid face grew even brighter. "Violet," he said angrily, "Children should be seen and not heard! Now, go to your room." 

"But father...," Violet whined, but was interrupted by her father's thick finger thrust in her direction. "I said go!," he thundered. 

Pouting, Violet flounced from the room, ruffled pink skirts fluttering wildly. 

Sir Gregory took a deep breath; impassive footmen served thick filets of turbot in a saffron laced sauce. "I apologize, ladies," he said when he had calmed. "My daughter is as headstrong as an unbroken colt. I blame myself; after her mother's death, I indulged the girl shamefully." 

He picked up a fork and applied himself stoically to the fish, while Rhiannon asked, "How ill is His Grace?" 

Sir Gregory put down his fork with a sigh. "My father's illness is not strictly physical, but mental as well. Although he is only sixty-three, nevertheless, his mind has begun to wander. At times, I quite fear for his safety." 

"What can you tell us of Miss Kincaid?" Lina asked, changing the subject after glancing at Rhiannon - who glowed with anticipation. 

The laird replied, "As I said, Miss Kincaid purchased Montrose Abbey nearly five years ago. I grew to know something of her history since my family were constant visitors. She apparently lived abroad for some years, both on the Continent and in America, returning to England only a few months before her retirement to Scotland. She was a successful romantic novelist - in fact, all of her books are in the library - and while not wealthy, was quite comfortable financially." 

Rhiannon wished she had not left her notebook and automatic pencil upstairs, but upon reflection, realized it would be bad manners in the extreme to scribble notes at the dinner table. "Did she ever tell you why she left her family?" she asked. 

"No. And I felt it impolite to inquire." Sir Gregory's voice held a note of mild reproof. "Apparently, and I surmise this only because of a few statements she made in my presence, there was some sort of rift between herself and the rest of her family. Beyond that, I know nothing." 

Throughout the salad course, the entree of wild venison, and a delicious chocolate souffle, the conversation centered on hunting - fox and otherwise, politics, and taxes. After a finishing course of fruit and cheeses (which left Rhiannon nearly scarlet, remembering her seduction of Lina with same in the railcar), they retired to the laird's study for the reading of the will. 

Mrs. Babcock was waiting in the book-lined office. "I didn't wish to disturb you, milord. So I waited here." 

"Fine, Mrs. Babcock," Sir Gregory waved a dismissive hand. "As soon as one other interested party arrives, I will read Miss Kincaid's will." He settled himself behind his desk and busied himself arranging papers. "Please be seated," he added almost as an afterthought. 

Mrs. Babcock was a tall, strong-looking woman with a stern face and protruding, muddy green eyes. Her hair was hidden beneath a lacy mobcap of old fashioned design, and her severely styled dress was of serviceable black bombazine. "I was old Miss Kincaid's nurse," she said proudly, "Me and Dr. Clarke looked after her in her last days." 

"How d'ye do?" Rhiannon murmured politely, while Lady Evangeline made some innocuous remark. 

They all sat down in leather covered chairs facing the laird. In a few minutes, Mrs. Babcock said, "Yes, and you should have seen Sir Gregory with the poor old thing. Why, he was nearly as attentive as a son, always at her side, day in and day out." 

Sir Gregory kept his eyes on the documents in his hand but Lina noticed that he stiffened a little. 

Mrs. Babcock gave the two women a malicious smile. "Miss Kincaid was terribly ailing, you know. The pain was dreadful, and her attacks became worse as time wore on; poor. Dr. Clarke said it was gastric fever, and he dosed her proper, but she never recovered." 

The nurse gave Sir Gregory a sharp look but he did not raise his eyes from his papers. She continued, "Sir Gregory tried to be a comfort, poor lamb, but he could only stay a little while before she'd have another attack and then he'd have to leave. Men never do have any stomach for illness, in my opinion. Every time one of her attacks would pass, Miss Kincaid would be too weak to do anything but lay there, petting her precious doggie." 

Rhiannon asked, "A dog? Where's it now?" 

Sir Gregory replied gruffly, "It died, Miss Moore. It was a surly beast, given to fits of temperament; only Miss Kincaid could control the creature. Shortly after her funeral, it disappeared. None of my neighbors has reported seeing it; the bitch probably starved out in the woods." 

A tentative tap came from the door, and Mrs. Dalyrymple entered. "Jack Darling is here, m'laird," she said diffidently, standing aside to admit the fourth and final party to Sir Gregory's study. 

Jack Darling was old and as gnarled as a wind-blasted pine; his brown eyes shone sadly, giving him the look of a lachrymose bloodhound. "I've come, milord," he said, touching his cap with one finger, "Sorry ta have kept ye." 

"Quite all right, Darling. Now that you're here, man, take a seat." Sir Gregory waited until the man had settled himself, then addressed Rhiannon, "Jack Darling was Miss Kincaid's gardener." 

"Aye, an' ta lady did all right fer me whilst she were livin', so I s'pect she'll do ta same now that she's dead, God rest her soul," Darling said piously. 

Sir Gregory harrumphed. "Now then. All of the parties in this room have an interest of one kind of another in Miss Kincaid's will. I shall now read the particulars..." 

To the gardener, Miss Kincaid had left the astonishing sum of one thousand pounds; the old man wept, pulling out a polka-dotted handkerchief to cover his face, muttering, "Aye! A grand lady, that." 

Mrs. Babcock, much to her evident satisfaction, was left an equally round sum of fifteen hundred pounds. It was clear that she considered such largesse as her due. 

Rhiannon waited her turn breathlessly. What could her Great-Aunt have left her? 

"...and to my great-niece, Rhiannon Moore, I leave the contents of my strongbox, presently in the keeping of His Grace, Lord Thomas, Duke of Templemoor, with my blessings; and also the sum of five hundred pounds." Sir Gregory cleared his throat. "And to Sir Gregory MacLellan, my excellent friend, I leave my estate of Montrose Abbey, with all the goods and chattels currently contained therein, and all my remaining monies, stocks, etc., in the total of twenty thousand pounds." 

He looked up, blue eyes soft with grief. "I, of course, knew of this particular provision in Miss Kincaid's will. As the only practicing solicitor outside of Dundee, it was Miss Kincaid's particular wish that I draw up the document and oversee its deputation. I protested, not wishing to be accused of partiality or irregularity, and at my own insistence, the signing of the will was witnessed by Mrs. Babcock." 

Lina nodded. "Of course, Sir Gregory. No one here has accused you of anything. In fact, I applaud your circumspection." 

Rhiannon was nearly in tears. "Poor Great-Aunt Margaret!" she exclaimed, and Jack Darling patted her back. 

"There, there, lass," he said, "Dinna grieve. Surely ta lady's in a far finer place fer now. She suffered terribly at ta end, an' I know fer myself that she was glad ta be goin' at last." 

Rhiannon wiped her eyes on the small square of cambric handed to her by Lady Evangeline. "Thank you, Mr. Darling." 

The gardener smiled sadly and rose. "Thank ye fer yer hospitality, Sir Gregory," he said, touching his cap again. "I'll be leavin' now fer ta raise a glass or two in Miss Kincaid's memory." 

Darling left and Sir Gregory glanced at the mantle clock. "Since it is nearly eleven o'clock, I think it best that we all retire. In the morning, if you wish, I will have bank drafts drawn up from Miss Kincaid's account for the sums she has left you. As for the strongbox, Miss Moore, I shall have one of the servants fetch it for you tomorrow." 

Lina rose, hiding a yawn behind a raised hand. "Thank you for the kind offer, Sir Gregory, but I believe it best that Rhiannon and I go to Templemoor in person to collect this legacy. If you have no objection, that is." 

The peer's sideways glance was sharp, but the laird replied mildly, "As you wish. My carriage is at your disposal at any time." 

Lina and Rhiannon made their goodnights and trooped back up the stairs to their bedchamber. The strawberry-blonde woman was filled with curiosity. 

"What do you suppose is in the box?" she asked, helping her lover unfasten the dozens of tiny buttons that marched down the back of her dress. 

"I have no idea, my dear. I only hope it is something good, for your sake." 

Abruptly, Rhiannon threw her arms around Lina and squeezed, resting her face against the other woman's back. "You're the best thing in my life, love," she said, "but why did you insist on going personally to Templemoor? Surely you're not interested in a dotty old Duke." 

Lina's emerald eyes gazed into the distance. "Oh," she replied a trifle absently, "I have my reasons, my dear. I have my reasons." 

Although Rhiannon tried with all the persuasion at her command that night, she was unable to wrest any further admissions from her closed-mouthed partner. 

CHAPTER EIGHT

On the heavily carved and inlaid table beside the bed, a small clock chimed once, and Rhiannon was wakened by the sound of a desperate howl outside the bedchamber window. 

She sat bolt upright, clutching the sheets to her breast. "What is that?" she exclaimed in the darkness; beside her, Lina murmured, "Stay here," and climbed out of the tall bed. 

Lina only wore a man's nightshirt of thin combed cotton as a concession to modesty. She stalked to the open window and peered out, her aristocratic face washed in milky moonlight to a landscape of planes and angles. 

Again, the unearthly wail shattered the night. Rhiannon flinched, throwing back the bedclothes to join her lover at the window, a lacy peignoir flung over her shoulders. 

Beneath them, the waters of Scurdie Ness glimmered with faint points of diamond light; the heavy wood beyond was dark and still. Moonlight had turned the lawn and landscape of the Abbey into a dark fairy's delight, full of fascinating shadows and sinister rustling breezes. 

When the wail came yet a third time, Rhiannon put her arm around Lina's waist and leaned into the taller woman, seeking comfort. "What can it be?" she asked. "It sounds like something mourning." 

"There is grief there, my dear. But listen; do you hear anything else?" 

Once again, the howl of misery and despair echoed through the castle and Rhiannon thought she detected a note of rage as well. She shuddered. "How awful! It sounds like an animal in pain, but..." 

"But it sounds uncannily intelligent, as well," Lina finished. Her eyes seemed almost black in the uncertain light. "The sound appears to be coming from across the lake. Listen..." 

Although both women stood at the window for a long time thereafter, the unearthly howl was not heard again that night. 

The next morning at breakfast, Lady Evangeline glanced at a sullen Violet across the table. "I trust you had a pleasant evening, Miss Violet?" she inquired politely. 

Violet looked at her with haggard eyes. The girl was even more pallid than usual. "No, I did not, milady. I heard the banshee again last night." 

Lina chewed thoughtfully on a bit of grilled kidney before answering, "Oh, is that what it was? I thought it was a hound or perhaps a wolf." 

Sir Gregory joined them, plunking his filled plate on the table a little forcefully. "There are no more wolves in Scotland, Lady Evangeline. They were exterminated long ago." He shot his sulky daughter a warning glare before seating himself. 

Violet spoke up defiantly, "I know what I heard! It was the banshee!" 

Sir Gregory opened his mouth to scold his daughter but was interrupted by Lady Evangeline. "Well, since none of us was found weltering in our gore - or at least, none that I know of - perhaps your earlier banshee's warning was a touch hasty." 

Violet flushed; such a flood of color in her pallid face gave her the resemblance of a well-fed vampire. "It was the banshee," she mumbled, pushing her eggs around the plate with her fork. "I know it!" With that, she stood and walked away, flaxen hair twisted into a single braid that bounced against her reed-slim waist with every step. 

Rhiannon smiled. "Sir Gregory," she said, "What on earth was that terrible howling last night?" 

The laird shrugged. "Some hound, most likely. Many of the lairds hereabouts enjoy fox hunting and keep a pack or two of hounds. In fact, I'm fond of it myself. We host an annual hunt ball at Templemoor in November at the beginning of the season." 

Lina nodded and said slyly, "Mr. Oscar Wilde has said that fox hunting is 'the pursuit of the uneatable by the unspeakable.' I take it the local folk do not share his view?" 

Sir Gregory put down his fork angrily. "Balderdash! That fainting lily Wilde's mouth will be the death of him yet. I was very nearly required to whip him from the bounds of the Anglo-Safari Club, once. He and that detestable sodomite of his." He blew out his breath, mustache fluttering, ruddy face an even brighter scarlet. 

There was silence for a long moment as the two women ate their breakfast and Sir Gregory regained his composure. "I beg your pardon," he said finally with exquisite politeness, "My mother, Lady Carolyn, God rest her soul, always declared I had the worst temper in Scotland." 

"That is quite all right, Sir Gregory," Lina said. She was dressed in a lovely summer visiting gown of ivory sprinkled with tiny silk rosebuds. In the coils of her ebony hair, a bouquet of silk roses had been thrust behind one ear. "I did hope you could indulge Miss Rhiannon this morning in a particular wish of hers." 

While Rhiannon stared at her lover, she felt a slight blow against her shin and Lina's emerald eyes flashed warningly. Blinking rapidly, she said, "Oh, yes, Sir Gregory! Please. I so hope you'll agree. It means the world to me." Whatever it is...

The laird leaned back and laced his fingers across his ample stomach. "Whatever your desire is, miss, rest assured I shall do my utmost to requite it." His good humor had obviously been restored by the dark-haired woman's courtesy. 

As Rhiannon gaped, wondering what to say next, Lina smoothly took up the thread of the conversation. "As you know, Miss Rhiannon does not know very much about her Great-Aunt. She was hoping you would allow her to see the room where Miss Kincaid died. I assure you it is not a morbid request; my secretary hopes to gain some... well, some flavor of the woman, you understand." 

Sir Gregory chuckled. "Of course, I quite understand. Mrs. Dalyrymple will conduct you to Miss Kincaid's chambers at any time you wish." 

After breakfast, when the laird had excused himself, pleading unavoidable business, Lina drew Rhiannon aside. "My dear, I want you to go to the library and find Miss Kincaid's books. Sir Gregory said last night there are copies available." 

"But why?" Rhiannon was puzzled. 

"I wish to read them, my dear. And you may wish to as well. It is said that the best authors write from their own experiences; perhaps in doing so, you can begin to understand your Great-Aunt Margaret a little better." 

Rhiannon went to the library, still wondering a little over Lina's sudden interest in romantic literature. Fortunately, the library proved to be as fascinating as the rest of the house. Done in the Gothic style, all dark carved woods and musty velvet curtains, every wall was sheathed in shelves and every shelf bulged with books. It didn't take the strawberry-blonde woman long to find her Great-Aunt's books - twelve in all. 

The first was a thick volume, bound in green-blue buckram, and it was entitled, 'The Woman Scorned.' 

Rhiannon settled herself down on a settee and was soon completely engrossed. 

CHAPTER NINE

Meanwhile, Lady Evangeline had, by exercising formidable charm and aristocratic self-assurance, persuaded the housekeeper, Mrs. Dalyrymple, to surrender her master key, which fitted every lock in the house. 

Going back upstairs, the peer opened every door in the long, third floor corridor until she came upon a large bedchamber decorated in an unmistakably masculine style. The furnishings were so new they still gleamed with beeswax and lemon oil;  zebra skins, lion heads and antelope horns were scattered throughout. 

This must be Sir Gregory's chamber, Lina thought, scanning the surroundings with an eagle's eye. It was abnormally neat, in her opinion; but the fireplace grate had not yet been cleared of the previous evening's ashes, therefore the maid-of-all-work must not have been around to tidy up. Yet silver brushes were lined up with military precision on the bureau and the bed had been made with exactitude. 

Lady Evangeline examined the sheets and snorted. Military corners, as well, she thought. Sir Gregory has either been in her Majesty's service before or his father was a retired officer. 

Something glittered in the corner of her eye; turning around, she spied a gleam amidst the ashes in the iron grate. Kneeling, she carefully but swiftly pushed aside the cold, gray ash to expose... a silver sleeve-stud - tarnished with exposure to the flames, but intact. Lina recognized it as one she had seen Sir Gregory wear in his cuff last night. The smoky cairngorm that had centered the piece was cracked with heat. 

A frown came across Lady Evangeline's face. Poking through the ashes yielded no further clue... Although, she thought, from the amount of residue, Sir Gregory must have had quite a high fire burning for a summer's night. 

Lina pocketed the stud and climbed to her feet, hurrying out of the room, carefully closing and locking the door behind her. 

Rhiannon was completely immersed in the romantic tale written by Margaret Kincaid. The Woman Scorned was a weepy romantic tale of forbidden romance, an unfortunate mistake, and tragic consequences. Before she'd finished three chapters, Rhiannon was deeply touched by the emotional strength of the prose. 

When Lina entered the library looking for her, Rhiannon glanced up at her lover, tears trickling down her cheeks. "Oh, Lina!" she exclaimed, "you must read this! It's so terribly sad." 

The peer perched on the edge of the settee and patted Rhiannon's hand. "Perhaps later, my dear. If I can tear you away from your fascinating reading, we should go examine your Great-Aunt's sickroom before Mrs. Dalyrymple requires her key." 

Immediately, Rhiannon swung her legs off the settee and stood, arranging her skirts. "Of course. If you'll help me with these," she said, indicating the stack of books piled on one table, "I'll leave them in our bedchamber." 

Together, they hauled the volumes upstairs, Lina walking behind Rhiannon on the staircase, the better to admire the way the other woman's hips swung back and forth as she walked. I must admit, Lina thought, Rhiannon is devastatingly attractive - and I thank God every night that she is mine.

Rhiannon wore her own summer dress of lavender linen, embroidered with flirtatious fans in dark purple and teal. The small puffed sleeves and bodice were edged in eyelet lace; indigo ribbons were threaded through her red-gold hair. "Lina," she asked as they continued down the hallway, "where were you while I was in the library?" 

The peer stopped for a moment, considering. At last, she said slowly, "I shall have to tell you later, my dear. But I promise that I will, directly after we examine the sickroom." 

Rhiannon shrugged good-naturedly. Ever since an earlier confrontation with her lover over Lina's tendency to coddle her unmercifully, the other woman had been fairly careful to include Rhiannon in as many decisions as possible. If she says she will, then she will. I'll just have to wait a bit. 

The two women went to the sickroom, Margaret Kincaid's former bedchamber. The room was dominated by a large, iron-framed bed, and the enormous table that sat beside it was still covered in bottles, jars, phials and other medical paraphernalia. A wicker basket of oranges and apples rotted in one corner of the table, a silver fruit knife beside it. 

Lina prowled around the table, examining labels and poking through the assorted medicines, at one point picking up the knife and frowning, while Rhiannon casually looked at this and that. The strawberry-blonde wasn't sure what Lina was looking for, but she was confident she would soon find out. 

"Oh!" exclaimed Rhiannon, spying a silver-framed mezzo-tint in a prominent place on the vanity. "It's my mother!" 

Lina walked over and put her arms around the smaller woman's waist, leaning her chin on the top of Rhiannon's head. The tint had been hand colored in the pastels of an earlier age, and depicted a lovely young woman with dark blue eyes and flaming auburn hair. "Your mother was quite beautiful, my dear," the peer said softly. 

Rhiannon sniffed, wiping a tear from her face with the back of a hand. "She died when I was eleven, trying to give birth to my baby brother. He died, too. The doctor couldn't do anything to save them." 

Lady Evangeline squeezed her wife gently. "I'm truly sorry, Rhiannon. Perhaps, if we inquire, Sir Gregory will allow you to keep your mother's print." 

Rhiannon held the frame against her bosom tightly. "I hope so. I have nothing else to remember her by, except my memories." 

Lina's gentle hands turned the smaller woman around until the sky-blue eyes she loved could look directly into her own. "My poor darling," she said softly, "if Sir Gregory refuses, we shall take it anyway. It will not the first time I have crept away into the night bearing stolen goods." 

Rhiannon gave her a sad little smile. "True. Too bad Jackson isn't here; we may need his formidable burglar's skills." 

"Quite so. Well, come away, my dear. I have seen all I wish to in this place. Unless, of course, you want to stay." 

"No. There's nothing left of Great-Aunt Margaret here. Maybe that strongbox will give me some answers." 

Lina leaned down and kissed Rhiannon gently. "For your sake, my dear... I hope so as well." 

Both women entertained thoughts of returning to Lina's bedchamber for a while... until they were interrupted by a frightful scream from belowstairs. 

Exchanging a glance, they ran out of the room. 

On the ground floor, they found the housekeeper crumpled in a heap on a davenport near the fireplace, apron covering her face. Wails and sobs shook the fragile linen. 

"Mrs. Dalyrymple!" Lina barked, "What the Devil is the matter?" 

The aged housekeeper did not answer until Lina repeated her inquiry impatiently. Then, she said in a quavering voice muffled by folds of cloth, "It's her... ta nurse, Mrs. Babcock. Her was killed last night! Oh, horrible, horrible t'was. Och, ta puir lady..." She began to sob again as Lady Evangeline raced out of the house, Rhiannon at her heels. 

Once outside, the peer skidded to a stop so abruptly that Rhiannon nearly bumped into her. The strawberry-blonde peered around her taller companion and caught her breath.

Two strangers, men dressed in rough work clothes, stood next to Sir Gregory, who was gazing stone-faced down at the body of Mrs. Babcock. The nurse's muddy green eyes protruded even farther in death; her throat bore a ragged, raw-edged wound, as if some animal had attacked her. 

Sir Gregory noticed the two women and strode over to them. "I beg your pardon, ladies, but perhaps you were prefer to repair to the house. The sight," he continued after glancing at Rhiannon's whey-colored face, "is quite gruesome and unfit for well-bred women." 

Lina drew herself up. "On the contrary, Sir Gregory," she announced, "I have, in my time, observed an autopsy or two. Surely the sight of a corpse, no matter how disfigured, will not discompose me." 

The laird grimaced, gesturing grudging acceptance. "Very well, then. Have it your own way. But I warn you - I don't have time for fainting flowers at the moment." 

Lina gave him a sharp look from dark emerald eyes but said nothing else. She marched over to the corpse and squatted down next to it, examining the wound professionally while Sir Gregory watched in disgust. 

"Is your employer always so morbid?" he asked acerbically. 

Her eyes locked on her lover's actions, Rhiannon replied, "Yes, I'm afraid so, Sir Gregory. There's no stopping her once her mind's made up." 

The laird muttered, "Headstrong females!" under his breath, but forebear from further comment. 

Lady Evangeline stood up, wiping her slightly gory fingers on a handkerchief. She walked back over to Sir Gregory, balling the cambric square up and thrusting it into one pocket, asking, "How could Mrs. Babcock have been killed in such a fashion?" 

He snorted, walrus mustache fluttering. "No doubt the silly woman got some romantic notion or another about a moonlight stroll last night. These men found her near the remains of an old church, a few miles from the Abbey on the other side of the Ness. There are a few wild dogs in the vicinity; no doubt she was attacked by one of them." 

Lina's lips thinned but she said nothing more other than, "Thank you for allowing my examination, Sir Gregory. Now, since I am sure you need to alert the local constabulary, perhaps Rhiannon and myself should take the opportunity to avail ourselves of your kind offer last evening." 

The laird's eyes were sharp. "Which offer would that be, milady?" he asked cautiously. 

"Why, to borrow your excellent carriage and go to Templemoor, of course! And I hope you do not mind, but knowing it is unlikely that the police will allow Rhiannon and myself to leave until they complete their investigation, I shall also want to stop in the village. There are some, ah, necessities I neglected to bring with me, not having anticipated an extended stay." 

Sir Gregory's face turned brighter. "Of course," he said, and Rhiannon wondered what he was thinking. "You will be my guests until this dreadful business is settled. By all means, go to the village, go to Templemoor and please, ladies, do endeavor not to allow this unfortunate tragedy to blight your afternoon." 

Lady Evangeline nodded her thanks and led Rhiannon away. 

CHAPTER TEN

Templemoor was an ancient stone castle that had clearly been added to over the years; Georgian style mixed freely with Greek revival, Gothic and Tudor, so that the whole massive edifice gave the impression of a child's puzzle put together haphazardly. But colorful pennants waved from the turrets, a flag with the snarling wolf's head design of the MacLellan family prominent among them. 

As they rolled up the graveled drive, Lina said, "My dear, I am inordinately proud of you. You did not even turn green at the sight of Mrs. Babcock and I know it must have horrified you to the core." 

"You mean, you're glad I didn't faint?" Rhiannon replied ironically, a red-gold brow raised. "I didn't want to embarrass you in front of Sir Gregory, so I told myself to be strong. After all, I faced the head of the Hellfire Club and lived to tell the tale; what's one corpse compared to that?" Her heart-shaped face was bleak as she recalled the dreadful danger her beloved had been in on that terrible night, only six months ago.

Lina took Rhiannon's small hand in her own and raised it to her lips. "I shall never forget that act of bravery, my dear. Holmes told me all about it, you know. He was fit to burst with pride." 

"Really? I thought him likely to strangle me instead." 

Lady Evangeline laughed. "Yes, he was a little put out that you attacked several dozen men single-handedly, but you did save my life in the end, my fierce warrior queen. I only wish I had been awake to see it." 

Rhiannon blushed. "I did tell you all about it after you recovered from being poisoned." 

"Yes, you did. But hearing is not quite the same experience as seeing, my dear. Perhaps I should place my life in jeopardy again, just to be a witness to your extraordinary bravery." 

Rhiannon punched Lina in the arm. "Don't you dare!" she said hotly as the carriage rolled to a stop in front of the castle. "Anyway, you watch me practice fighting all the time." 

Rhiannon practiced daily with a length of seasoned ebony crafted for her by an Oriental gentleman of Lina's acquaintance. The quarterstaff was an antique weapon that quite suited the smaller woman, allowing her a length of reach that would be inobtainable with anything else. Her staff, nearly as tall as she was, doubled as a fashionable cane; she carried it with her, usually wrapped in gay ribbons, whenever she and her lover went out for the evening. 

Thus far, she had refused Lina's offers to have her tutored in the skills of unarmed combat called baritsu, a martial art at which both she and Holmes were masters. Having left her staff behind at their home in Grosvenor Square, Rhiannon was now having second thoughts. 

After all, she considered, baritsu skills cannot be taken away, lost, or left behind. I'll always have a weapon. And she determined to begin lessons as soon as they returned to England. 

The two women were admitted to Templemoor by a Roman-nosed butler of stoic mien. His thinning black hair, glistening with macassar oil, had been carefully combed over in an attempt to conceal his balding head. He received Lady Evangeline's calling card on a silver salver and showed them into a drawing room. 

"H'if you will wait here, moddom," the butler said in round tones with freezing dignity, "h'I will inform His Grace of your h'arrival." 

Lina stripped off her gloves and plopped down on a camelback sofa, spreading her ruffled skirts to keep them from being wrinkled. "Sit down, my dear," she said to Rhiannon. "No doubt his son has already informed the Duke of our errand; we have only to collect your prize, make some polite conversation, and then we will be on our way." 

A deep voice from the doorway startled both women. "Fer shame! I'd hoped ta have ta company o' two such charmin' ladies fer an hour or two at least." 

Turning around, Rhiannon beheld an old man being wheeled into the room in a wicker chair. He smiled at them both. "Laird Thomas," he said, rheumy blue eyes twinkling. "An' you must be ta wee Rhiannon my friend Margaret told me aboot - only nae so wee ennymore, I see." 

Rhiannon blushed. "I beg your pardon, Your Grace," she said, and Lina seconded the sentiment, her own face pink with embarrassment. 

The old man waved a gnarled hand; the arthritic fingers were twisted and bent. "Nae matter, lassies. 'Tis all right; I'm not so easily offended as I was in my younger days." 

Lord Thomas craned his head back to speak to the young manservant who had pushed his chair. "G'wan, now, Billy, there's a good lad. An' on yer way, bespeak Mrs. Thrimble fer some tea." 

Rhiannon sank down on the sofa next to Lady Evangeline, her red-gold brows drawn together in a frown. From what Sir Gregory had told her, she had expected a somewhat wandering, vague old man; instead, Lord Thomas seemed as vigorous mentally as he was crippled physically. 

The Duke rolled his chair opposite the two women, waving off their offers of assistance. "Comes ta day when I canno' push myself 'crost a wee room, lassies, t'will be ta day when I turns my face to ta wall an' breathes my last." 

Having gotten himself comfortably situated, Lord Thomas beamed at his visitors. His lap and withered legs were covered by a knitted afghan in the MacLellan tartan colors of red, green and black. "I s'pect ye've come fer this, Miss Rhiannon," he said, reaching beneath the afghan and pulling out an old iron box. 

Rhiannon hastily lifted the box from his trembling hands before he could drop it. "Thank you, Your Grace," she said. She ran her hands reverently over the lid. "Do you have any idea what's inside?" 

"Aye," Lord Thomas replied. "Margaret charged me ta tell ye that ta contents of yon box is ta sum o' her life; her journals, letters, everythin'. An' asked me ta tell ye particular ta look after her wee Fyvie." 

"Fyvie?" Rhiannon said, imitating his pronunciation 'FIE-vee.' "Who's that?" 

"Why, 'tis her wee doggie what gi' her such comfort in those last few days. Have ye no seen her?" The Duke seemed taken aback. 

Lina and Rhiannon exchanged a glance. They both wondered if this could be a symptom of the mental deterioration Sir Gregory had spoken of. "Um, Your Grace," Lina said gently, "your son told us that Miss Kincaid's dog had died." 

"Died?" The old man seemed incredulous. "What d'ye mean by that? Bonnie Fyvie? Nay, it canno' be! Why, I brought Maggy ta pup wit' my own two hands, I did, not less than four years ago. An' I know wee Fyvie stayed wit' Margaret 'til ta end." 

"Nevertheless, Your Grace," Lina replied in that same gentle tone, "Sir Gregory was there at the Abbey; he told us Fyvie had run away the day of Margaret's funeral, and has not been seen since." 

"Och, well, dead an' not seen are two different things. I've an idea or two myself as to the wee Fyvie." He laid one gnarled finger against his nose and gave the startled peer a wink. "Maybe now ye've come, Miss Rhiannon, wee Fyvie'll come back home." 

Rhiannon nodded absently and examined the box more closely. The hasp and lock of the lid were fashioned into twisting serpents of brass and were considerably newer than the box itself. 

When she asked about it, Lord Thomas replied, "T'was my own idea, lass. I had ta lock changed when Margaret passed away, ta keep them what has no business in ta matter from snoopin'." 

He reached into one pocket and withdrew a key. Handing it to Rhiannon, he said, "An' when can we expect you ta become our new neighbor, lass?" 

Rhiannon gulped. "I'm only visiting the Abbey, Your Grace." She was beginning to think Sir Gregory had been correct; his father's mind was no longer as keen as it once must have been. 

"Oh ho! Well, then, I'm hopin' ta see ye again sometime, when ye've sorted out all yer business." 

Lady Evangeline took the opportunity to ask, "Did you know Mrs. Babcock well, Your Grace? Margaret's nurse?" 

"Nay, no much. That bloody Sassenach wit' all her airs an' little ways. Reminded me o' my wife Lady Carolyn, God rest her soul. T'was my boy Gregory what had ta hirin' o' her; her an' all that crew over to ta Abbey. When Margaret was ailin', Gregory went over ta take care o' her, seein' as how I'm nae more capable o' such tasks. Near first thing ta boy did was give all ta servants notice, save only fer ta gardener." 

"I wonder why he did such a thing?" Lina mused out loud. 

"I've no idea, never asked ta boy. Say, what are ye going ta do wit' all yer money, lass?" 

Again, Rhiannon was slightly startled. "Well, I haven't really considered it yet, but I'm sure my employer has a few ideas." She wondered why Lina had not told the old man about Mrs. Babcock's death, but on further reflection realized it must have been out of concern for the Duke's fragile health. He certainly looks as if a sudden shock might do him in, she thought. 

Abruptly, the Duke's smile faltered. He slumped down in his chair, arms dangling over the sides, clearly unconscious. Lina was instantly on her feet, one hand pressed to the side of the old man's throat. The look of intense concern on her face was quickly replaced by amusement. 

"It is all right, my dear," she said, "he has only fallen asleep. The elderly do that sometimes. I think we should go now." 

Rhiannon's heartbeat returned to normal. She'd thought the Duke had died right before her eyes. As the two women left, Rhiannon leaned over and adjusted the afghan over the old man's knees. 

Having informed the stoic Billy about the Duke's condition, they climbed into Sir Gregory's carriage for the journey back. Rhiannon kept the box in her lap, the precious key clutched in her fist. 

"Lina," she asked, "why did you want to know why Sir Gregory gave the servants notice?" 

Lina's emerald eyes darkened. "Because, my dear," she said, "it told me much about his character." 

Rhiannon mused on that cryptic statement as the carriage rolled down into the village of Templemoor Heath. 

Next Page ~~~~~~>

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The Banshee's Wail by Nene Adams (page 2)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Heath, as the village was referred to by the natives, was a cluster of shops, a stable, two taverns and a produce and fish market. Lady Evangeline immediately made inquiries as to the location of Dr. Clarke's practice and was given directions to Gooseberry Lane. 

The gleaming brass shingle that dangled from one eave proclaimed Dr. James Holyfield Clarke to be in residence. Lina and Rhiannon were shown in by the doctor's wife, a small, bird-like woman named Fanny. 

Fanny Clarke was shorter than Rhiannon by a head, and so tiny and petite that the secretary fancied she must wear child's boots, although her spotless apron and bottle-blue dress were made for an adult - even if the enormous leg-o-mutton sleeves were years out of date. But for all her lack of size, Dr. Clarke's wife had a temperment that was as fiery as her dark red hair. 

Fanny shooed her visitors into a drawing room that was shabbily elegant, saying, "In wi' ye! I'll be goin' to tell me husband yer here an' fetch some tea. Make yersel's comfortable, ladies." 

She bustled from the room; her loud voice, considerably out of proportion to her size, commanding her husband, "Come along, James, an' be quick about it, man! There's quality waitin', ya daft weevil!" 

Dr. James Clarke sheepishly entered the drawing room a few minutes later. "Lady Evangeline," he said, nodding to the waiting peer, and, "Miss Moore," he continued with a glance in the strawberry blonde's direction. "What can I do for you ladies this afternoon?" 

Lina smiled. "I was hoping you would be willing to answer a few questions regarding Miss Margaret Kincaid's death." 

Dr. Clarke seemed relieved. "Oh, yes, of course! Anything you like." He sat down on a chair next to Lady Evangeline and Rhiannon chose a tufted ottoman at her lover's feet. 

"What were your questions, milady?," Dr. Clarke asked. He was a young, earnest looking gentleman, with sleek black hair and mild hazel eyes. Clean-shaven, his chin sported a small spot of sticking plaster; he'd clearly washed and razored his face in a hurry that morning. 

"I understand you diagnosed Miss Kincaid's condition as gastric fever. What led you to that conclusion?" 

Once again, Rhiannon wished she had brought a notebook with her, but she knew Lina was capable, with her prodigious memory, of reproducing entire conversations days after the event. So she settled back, leaning against her lover's knees, hands clasped in her lap, and resolved to learn Lina's methods of interrogation. 

"Hmmm," Dr. Clarke mused, scratching his chin and involuntarily dislodging the plaster, which fell in his lap, revealing a small scab. "Miss Kincaid he suffered from spells of colicky abdominal pain, nausea, vomiting and, if you will excuse me for being blunt, runny bowels. These episodes came and went for weeks before she finally succumbed. In the end, she was quite weak and suffering from tremors and memory loss." 

"I see." Lina's emerald eyes sparkled with interest. "Did she suffer hair loss or dry mouth as well?" 

"Why, yes, now that I think of it, she did. How did you know? Do you volunteer at a hospital, Lady Evangeline?" Dr. Clarke seemed astonished. 

"No, doctor, I do not." The peer gazed off into the distance for a moment then focused back on the young man. "Those particular symptoms are not unusual for a patient suffering from gastric fever." 

There was something in the way the other woman pronounced those last two words that made a chill shiver down Rhiannon's spine. 

Lina was continuing, "Did these episodes of illness have any discernible pattern?" 

Again, Dr. Clarke scratched his chin. "Not that I'm aware of, milady. Although, in the last few days of her life they seemed to run closer and closer together. Frankly, her nurse, Mrs. Babcock, was a wonder. If not for her, I'd have been unable to attend to my other patients. And Sir Gregory was quite attentive himself." 

Lady Evangeline's beautiful face was expressionless. "I see," she said again. "Well, doctor, I am sure you are quite busy and I do not wish to take up any more of your time. Thank you for your indulgence. Good day." 

The two women left the room just as Fanny was entering with an enormous platter of tea and scones. As Rhiannon walked down the street, her arm linked with Lina's, she distinctly heard the doctor's wife's voice raised. "Now what ha' ye done, John Clarke!" 

Despite her sudden chill, Rhiannon chuckled. 

Lina was silent all the way back to the Abbey. She smoked cigarette after cigarette, her face stony. 

Rhiannon, who was by now quite familiar with her lover's many moods - especially the brooding one - sighed and watched the beautiful scenery roll past the window. 

It was not until they had returned to the Abbey that Lina spoke. "We must find that dog, Rhiannon," she said. "The hound is the key to this mystery." 

Rhiannon raised one brow questioningly. "What mystery? True, I haven't opened my Great-Aunt's box yet, but Margaret's life and the reason she broke off with her family are the only mysteries here that I can see. And that's easily solved." 

The dark-haired woman flicked a cigarette butt from the window and patted her curling ebony locks with one hand. "My dear, our friend Sherlock once admitted that contemplation of the quiet, serene countryside made his blood run cold. He said that more crime and more evil is committed in an average country farmhouse than in the wickedest street in London." 

The carriage rolled to a stop, and Lina vaulted from the conveyance before Rhiannon could ask what in the world she had meant by that remark. 

CHAPTER TWELVE

Sir Gregory intercepted them outside the door of their bedchamber. "I thought you ladies would wish to know that Mrs. Babcock's death has been adjudged accidental in nature. It is as I originally feared; the poor woman was set upon by a wild dog while in the wood." 

Lady Evangeline looked at him coldly. "Or a wolf," she said. 

Sir Gregory raised his bushy eyebrows. "I believe I have explained that there are no wolves in Scotland, milady." 

"Perhaps, Sir Gregory. Perhaps." On the heels of this enigmatic remark, the peer drew Rhiannon into the bedchamber and shut the door. 

Once safely inside, Rhiannon said, exasperated, "Lina! Why were you so rude?! What's going on?" 

Lina began stripping off her dress with anxious fingers, tearing at the fabric impatiently until Rhiannon snorted and began helping her. "Never mind, my dear. Just promise me that you will on no account leave my side until we are away from this place." 

Now, Rhiannon's temper broke. She spun her astonished lover around by one arm and confronted her, the picture of wrath. Her cheeks bloomed with color and her sky-blue eyes snapped with sparks. "Lina," she said dangerously, "I think we've talked about secrets before, you and I. And you remember what I told you?" 

Lina ran her hands through her ebony hair, scattering hairpins and silk flowers in every direction. "How could I forget? But please... do not ask me to explain just yet. There is real danger here, Rhiannon. My first instinct is to whisk you away back to Edinburgh and thence to London, but knowing you as I do, I realize you would want to see this thing through to the end." 

"Which thing?!" Rhiannon cried. She grasped her skirts with both hands and shook them. "Lina, I can't stand it when you do this! Please, please, don't shut me out!" 

Instantly, the taller woman snatched Rhiannon to her bosom, putting a hand firmly over her mouth. Outraged eyes, darkened with fury to near sapphire, stared back at her. 

Lina whispered, "Sweetheart... you are my dearest, most precious love. But if you do not stop shouting, I shall certainly gag you. The walls have ears." 

The peer waited until the eyes that glared into her own softened a little. She removed her hand and replaced it with her lips. At first, Rhiannon resisted, but after a moment, her small hand slipped through Lina's dark curls and pulled her down for a more passionate embrace. 

When they both withdrew to catch their breath, Rhiannon said softly, "You do know me very well indeed, Lady Evangeline." She seemed less angry now than sad. Rhiannon continued mournfully, "But you still don't trust me." 

"It has nothing to do with trust, my love. We have had this discussion before." 

"You're right. I just... I don't like it when you keep things from me. It makes me feel as if I'm a child. You know that." 

Lina hugged her tightly. "Yes, I do. And I am truly sorrow, my dear. If it helps, I expect to have this case solved by tomorrow evening at the latest." 

"Well, until then, I'm going to open Great-Aunt Margaret's box. Maybe I'll solve my own mystery. Oh, and that first book she wrote... why, I could almost believe she had lived such a live herself! She was a very talented writer, Lina." 

For a moment, it seemed as if the peer had been struck by an axe handle; she stood there, stunned. Her emerald eyes glazed and she stiffened. Then, she said slowly, "Rhiannon, where is that book you were speaking of?" 

Rhiannon glanced around and pointed. "The Woman Scorned. Right where I left it, on the bedside table." 

Lina's gaze was drawn to the book as if tugged by invisible threads. "If you do not mind terribly, my dear, I think I shall read your Great-Aunt's book for a bit. Please, explore your prize; you need not wait for me." Without waiting for a reply, she crossed the room, picked up the volume and sat next to the window, thumbing through it with a frown of concentration on her beautiful face. 

Rhiannon sighed. Since when is she interested in romantic literature? she thought. Lina's always teasing me about my reading habits.

But finally, Rhiannon decided not to say a word and leave her partner to her own devices. I've fish enough of my own to fry.

The strawberry-blonde woman took up the iron box and the key, making herself comfortable on the great bed in Lina's chamber, piling feather pillows around and generally fussing about until Lina snapped, "Will you please stop making such a distraction, Rhiannon? Either be quiet or go to your own room." Lina immediately put her head back down, reading intently. 

Hurt, Rhiannon made a rude gesture she'd learned in Whitechapel from a street arab to the oblivious figure of her lover, then inserted the key into the box and threw back the lid. 

Inside, there were several leather bound journals along with bundles of ribbon wrapped letters. With a pang, Rhiannon realized that one such bundle had her mother's name. These must be the letters Great-Aunt Margaret exchanged with mother, she thought. Father must have returned them after she died.

She began rooting through the letters; after discovering they were bound together by year, Rhiannon sat back and began to read in earnest. 

A few hours later, she was snapped back to reality by Lina's voice. "My dear! Are you quite all right? I have been speaking to you for the past five minutes!" 

Rhiannon rubbed her eyes. "Yes, I'm fine," she replied. "I just got... a little lost, that's all." Her mind was whirling with images of Margaret Kincaid. 

Lina nodded. "Well, I am glad you found your way back, sweetheart. The dressing bell for dinner rang fifteen minutes ago; if we are to be made presentable, we must hurry." 

While they dressed, Rhiannon asked, "Did you finish your book?" 

"I did indeed. Your Great-Aunt was a courageous woman, Rhiannon. You should be exceedingly proud of her." Lina twisted her ebony hair into a neat coil, pinning it expertly. Her emerald green eyes sought Rhiannon's in the mirror. "As proud of her as I am of you, my dear." 

Remembering her Great-Aunt's exploits in Greece, Turkey, Russia, France, and even America, Rhiannon nodded, then blushed as she realized what else the peer had said. "She was an extraordinary woman, Lina. She contacted my mother shortly after I was born; they exchanged correspondence for years... until mother died. Father returned all her letters after that; I never saw them. I never even suspected I had a Great-Aunt! And now she's dead..." 

Lina turned around, hair half pinned, ebony curls dancing around her face. "My dear," she said, "I am truly sorry about Margaret. I would have liked to have known her myself." 

Rhiannon smiled sadly, then began doing up her own hair. "I'm sure she would have liked you as well. But... do you suspect something is going on here? Is that why you've been acting so mysteriously of late?" 

The dark-haired woman smiled, threading a pair of gold rings through her pierced ears. "I promise, you will be the first to hear the conclusion of this case. But first, let us eat! I have worked up quite the appetite this afternoon; now I realize why you find romantic literature so appealing. And why you are so hungry afterward! The exercise of emotions is nearly as invigorating as the exercise of the body." 

Rhiannon finished braiding her hair, then wound it around her head like a coronet, adding a pair of jeweled pins in the shapes of bobbing butterflies as a finishing touch. "I'll make a romantic of you yet, Lina," she replied teasingly. 

Lina grabbed her lover's hand and kissed the palm. "You already have, my love," she said. 

That evening, Violet MacLellan glowed like a pearl lit from within by cool fire. Her dress was dark rose trimmed with tier upon tier of delicate lace, and her swan-like neck was wrapped with a choker of onyx beads sporting a delicate cameo pendant. 

"See!" she hissed excitedly as Lady Evangeline took her place next to the teenager, "I told you someone would die! It was the banshee, just like I said!" Violet's crystalline eyes held a spark of febrile excitement. 

"Indeed," Lina replied dryly. "I trust the Montrose banshee will not make an appearance this evening? I could use a good night's sleep." 

Violet grabbed the peer's hand and squeezed fiercely. "The banshee is real, I tell you! Mrs. Babcock's dead, isn't she?" 

While Rhiannon sucked in her breath at the girl's effrontery, Lady Evangeline gave her a chilling little smile. "My dear Miss Violet," she said, baring her teeth like a starving wolf's, "I suggest you calm yourself. Some might consider your attitude a trifle... unnatural?" She raised an ebony brow and Violet snatched her hand away. 

Sir Gregory appeared at the table. "Violet," he asked gruffly, "are you bothering our guests?" 

As the large-bellied laird seated himself, Lady Evangeline shot the sullen teenager a warning glance. "Not at all," she replied airily. "We were just having the most delightful conversation before you arrived." 

Sir Gregory sniffed, then gestured for the footmen to begin serving dinner. 

Rhiannon ate in silence, while Lina and the laird talked casually of unimportant matters. 

Soon, however, Sir Gregory suggested they repair to the music room... "...and listen to my pretty little Violet. She's quite the accomplished musician, you know." He beamed with pride while his daughter colored in embarrassment. 

Lady Evangeline pinched the bridge of her nose between two fingers and grimaced. "I fear I cannot avail myself of your kind gesture, Sir Gregory. I have the headache, you see. I believe I shall go upstairs and lie down a while." 

"Of course." Sir Gregory was all solicitousness as he pulled back the peer's chair and helped her rise, putting a pudgy paw beneath her elbow. "Shall I summon Mrs. Dalyrymple? Do you require assistance?" 

"Oh, no," Lina said a trifle breathlessly. "I am fine, truly. I simply require rest." When Rhiannon rose, intending to help the peer, Lina waved a hand. "Do not trouble yourself, my dear. Go enjoy yourself with Sir Gregory and his daughter. I shall do well enough on my own." 

Lina walked slowly up the stairs, feeling Rhiannon's gaze burning a hole between her shoulder blades as her wife tried to decide whether this was a trick or genuine illness. My poor love. I hate to do this to her, but I truly have no choice.

As soon as the recital had begun, Lady Evangeline slipped unnoticed out of the house, dressed in her men's costume, and stole a horse from Sir Gregory's extensive stable. 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Much later, Rhiannon entered their bedchamber, her ears still ringing. If I had to endure another half-hour of badly played and worse sung 'Greensleeves,' she thought, I would surely go mad. Miss Violet might be considered an accomplished musician in these parts, but my Lord! Her voice is so high, I was surprised bats weren't flying around the room.

"Lina?" Rhiannon said aloud as she walked in the door, "Are you all right?" 

When no one answered, she frowned. Rhiannon crossed the room and opened the connecting door to her own chamber but it, too, was empty. 

Rhiannon sat down on the edge of the bed, her dress half-unbuttoned... and waited. There was a look of implacable resolution on her face that had not been there before. 

She did not have to wait long. A scratching came from the window; the strawberry-blonde walked over to it and observed the face of her lover peering back at her through the bubbled glass. Lina had apparently climbed the ivy that clung to the stone walls of the Abbey; she dangled precariously three stories above the pristine lawn. 

Rhiannon stood there a moment, considering, while Lina made increasingly agitated gestures and faces at her through the glass. Finally, she opened the latch and helped Lady Evangeline into the room. 

"My dear!," the peer exclaimed, "Were you going to keep me out there all night?" She was splashed with mud from head to toe and a long scratch wealed one forearm. 

Rhiannon shrugged. "I thought about it," she said coolly, "but decided you'd wake the household when you broke your leg instead of your head." 

Lina, who had been struggling out of her filthy trousers, turned to face her wife. There had been a note in that voice that caused her hackles to rise. "I was only joking, my dear," she said weakly. 

"I wasn't," Rhiannon replied. There was a touch of frost in her tone; Lina suddenly realized she was skating on thin ice, indeed. 

The taller woman stopped stripping off her trousers; they had fallen only to her knees, and the binding made it difficult to move, but she shuffled over to Rhiannon, who had her arms crossed over her bosom and bore a ominous glint in her eyes. "Tell me what is wrong, Rhiannon," Lina asked seriously. 

Rhiannon's toe began to tap. "You did it again, didn't you?" she asked coldly. "You snuck out and left me behind yet again. And this time, you didn't even bother to leave a note." 

Lina's ears turned red. "I meant to be back before the recital was over," she mumbled, "but that damned nag threw a shoe, and me as well, and I was forced to walk her the last bloody mile." 

Rhiannon stared; her eyes might have been carved from a glacier's heart. "That's no excuse and you know it. Promises, promises, promises! At least I know what your word's worth now," she finished bleakly. 

Lina was stricken. "My dear," she said in anguish, "I did not mean to hurt you! It was simply... well, there was something I had to do, and I needed you to provide a distraction for Sir Gregory and his abominable daughter." 

"Then why didn't you discuss it with me beforehand? I'm good at taking direction, you know. Even a hint would have been nice!" 

The peer looked so mournful that Rhiannon's heart softened a little. She knew Lina meant well; it was just so infuriating to be treated like a cloth-headed idiot, especially since said treatment came from one who claimed to love her. 

For the first time since Lina's precipitate arrival, Rhiannon allowed herself to really look at the other woman. Her lover stood there, pants drooping around her skinned knees, the trail of her mud-covered shirt barely covering the dark fringe of curls between her thighs. As usual, Lina wore no undergarments beneath her men's costume. 

Lina's emerald eyes had filled with tears. "I am most dreadfully sorry, Rhiannon," she said, thumb unconsciously rubbing the wedding ring on her left hand. "I... I suppose I do not think at times; I am too caught up in the moment, in the excitement of the chase... can you forgive me?" 

Rhiannon tried to keep the stern expression on her face but failed. She loved Lina so much, and the sight of her lover - skinned knees, mud and all - as well as the contrite tears... it was just too pitiful for her to remain angry long. 

I feel as if I'm scolding a small adorable child, Rhiannon thought, anger draining away. If she starts crying, I'll be the one begging forgiveness. "All right," she said, "But! If you don't want to keep having this argument, Lina, you'll have to do much, much better than you have been. I mean it! This is the very last time, hear?" She strangled the urge to shake her finger in Lina's face. "I won't warn you again!" 

Lina gave her wife a tentative smile. Her raven-dark hair was a tangled mess, full of twigs and grass; she stank to high heaven of horse shit and stale sweat; but at that moment, Rhiannon thought her heart would break at the other woman's beauty. 

"Very well, my dear," Lina said contritely. "I have been properly admonished. My word! You would have made a formidable governess!'' 

Rhiannon smiled slightly. "Don't make me have to go through this again, Lina. You might think my threats are made all of air because I don't carry them through, but one day - if you keep up this beastly behavior - you'll find that my back, like the camel's, can be broken.'' 

''You have my word as well as my undying affection, my dear," Lina answered. "Now, would you like to hear about the plans I have made for us tonight?" 

Rhiannon had to smile again. There was no stopping Lina's enthusiasm sometimes. "Yes," she replied simply, "after you get cleaned up a little and I get out of this dress." 

"I will be glad to assist," Lina said eagerly, but was fended off by a laughing Rhiannon. 

"No!" Rhiannon exclaimed, "You're all over mud! Go down the hall and at least scrub off some of the county before you put your muddy paws all over my best dress!" 

Lina leaned over and kissed her wife anyway; Rhiannon's mouth opened beneath the peer's like a flower, and their tongues briefly sparred, sliding sensuously, tasting, touching... 

Rhiannon whimpered a little, hampered by Lina capturing her hands and holding them away firmly. Her body longed to touch her lover's, feel the firm muscles and silken skin. She arched her back but Lina drew herself away, having strength enough to allow the only contact between them to be that perfect, timeless kiss. 

Lina's mouth grew more demanding; Rhiannon yielded, passion flaring as the other woman's teeth sank into her lower lip and sucked fiercely, nearly drawing blood. 

Finally, Lina broke away, her eyes incandescent with desire. "I will go scrub up," she said, her voice trembling a little. "While I am gone, get out of that dress, my dear. I have quite the adventure planned tonight and I am certain you would not want to be caught unprepared." 

When her lover left, Rhiannon sat back down on the bed and touched her slightly bruised lips with one hand. 

Then she quickly skinned out of her dress, heedless of possible damage to the frock. She undid her hair and brushed it, pulling snarls away unmercifully. Finally, the strawberry-blonde arranged herself seductively on the bed, and leaped back up again to turn the gaslight down to a soft shimmer. 

 Rhiannon lay back down again, breathless. I'm as nervous as a new bride, she thought, practically quivering with anticipation. And her lips quirked up into a smile as she considered, in all its permutations, what her lover could have meant by the word "adventure." 

The best part of an argument is making up afterwards, Rhiannon thought, tingling all over.. 

When Lina came into the room, scrubbing her face dry with a hand towel, she took one look at her lover and burst out laughing. 

Rhiannon sat up, greatly embarrassed and not a little angry. "What's so funny?" she asked, sky-blue eyes glittering. 

It took a few minutes for her to get herself under control, but finally Lina gasped, "That is not the adventure I had in mind, my dear!" She broke down laughing again while Rhiannon pouted, arms crossed over her chest. 

At last, Lina was able to explain to her indignant lover, "I am sorry if you misunderstood me, sweetheart." She chuckled again, ignoring an irate sky-blue glare. "I meant... well, here. See for yourself." 

She handed Rhiannon a pair of clean trousers and a shirt. "What's this for?" the strawberry blonde asked. "Are we going to play barrister and felon instead of knight and fair lady?" 

Lina choked back another laugh, nearly turning purple. When she could trust herself to speak, she said, "I never thought of that, my dear. No; it means that you and I are going out tonight. Together. You wished to become more involved in my work, and now is your opportunity. I had that costume tailored for you, since you cannot keep borrowing James' best suit for investigating." 

Rhiannon's mouth dropped into an O of astonishment. "You mean...?" she squeaked. 

"Yes. Tonight, we track the dreaded banshee to its lair. And you, my dear," Lina continued, emerald eyes intent, "provided me with the key. Now, I am leaving in ten minutes. If you wish to accompany me, you will have to be quick." 

Rhiannon needed no further encouragement as she scrambled off the bed.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Rhiannon held tight to Lina's hand as they walked through the eldritch wood. The moonlight was only a faint shimmer above their heads, but fortunately, the peer had brought a burglar's dark lantern - one shutter of the tiny shielded device had been opened to provide a single beam of light to guide their way. 

The ruins of the church were only a few miles away but the darkness made it necessary to go slow - to avoid gopher holes, fallen trees and a host of other nocturnal dangers. The two women crept along, Rhiannon keeping her lips firmly closed against her questions. Lina had warned her back at the Abbey about the need for absolute silence, at least until they had reached their goal. 

During the few minutes it had taken for Rhiannon to put on the trousers and shirt and bind up her hair, Lina had explained everything she knew about the mysterious circumstances at the Abbey. As she had put it, "My puzzle is nearly complete, my dear. Once we have the banshee, this sorry business will be concluded." 

Her mind was still whirling with the shock of Lina's revelations. I still can't believe it!, the strawberry-blonde thought. Although I can understand why she didn't want to tell me anything before... but her thoughts were interrupted when Lina came to an abrupt stop. 

Rhiannon felt her lover's lips breathe warmly in her ear, "The church." 

They had arrived at their destination. 

Lina crept around the tumbled stones, keeping her lantern's light focused on the ground. Rhiannon waited to one side, rubbing her arms to keep them warm. Although still summer, the night was a little cool and the pretty secretary wished she had thought to bring a shawl. 

Suddenly, a low growl snapped Rhiannon back to the present. Lina had drawn back, away from a gaping black hole - a cave formed from several blocks of mitered stone. The light from her lantern revealed a pair of gleaming amber eyes peering back menacingly from the midnight recesses... 

Rhiannon held her breath; she was terrified, but stood her ground. I will not faint, she said to herself sternly. Much to her own surprise, she didn't. A sense of confidence flooded through her; she knew that no matter what happened, she was strong enough to face it. 

Something was stalking stiff-legged from the cave; some mythic creature out of legend, it seemed. It was enormous and shaggy-coated, with long, lean legs and a pointed muzzle filled with glittering ivory fangs. With a start, Rhiannon realized it was an Irish wolfhound, and suddenly, something snapped together in her mind. 

Ignoring Lina's urgent gestures to stay still, Rhiannon advanced on the wolfhound, one hand out, palm upward. "Here, Fyvie," she cooed soothingly. "Here, nice puppy. I'm Margaret's great-niece, Rhiannon. Come here, pretty doggie, sweet Fyvie. Come here and meet me." She knew, somehow, that the dog, despite its aggressive stance, wouldn't hurt her. 

The gigantic wolfhound, though still snarling, cocked her head to one side. Her plumed tail wagged slightly as Rhiannon drew closer, clicking her tongue and saying in a high voice as if to a child, "Nice doggie. C'mere, wee Fyvie. Come on, girl. It's only Rhiannon. Good Fyvie. Gentle puppy." 

Fyvie stopped growling and her tail wagged faster. Suddenly, much to Lina's consternation, the wolfhound bounded towards Rhiannon. Before the shocked peer could complete her abortive move (she had drawn a skinning knife from her boot and was prepared to sell Rhiannon's life dearly), Fyvie reared up, placing her huge paws on Rhiannon's shoulders, and her sharp toothed muzzle darted forward.

Lina nearly fainted with relief when the wolfhound began licking the giggling Rhiannon's face with long swipes of her wet tongue. Her knees still weak from fright, the peer sank down on a nearby block of stone, trying to control her breathing. 

Rhiannon grabbed two fistfuls of Fyvie's tangled coat and pushed the ecstatic hound down, saying, "Enough, girl! I'll have no face left if you keep that up! Sit! Sit, Fyvie! Good girl!" 

The wolfhound wagged her tail and crouched down at her new mistress' feet, amber eyes glowing with intelligence and delight. 

Rhiannon looked over to where she had last seen Lina, then hurried across the clearing. Lina was still clutching her knife in one hand; although it was impossible to see much color in the darkness, Rhiannon was sure her lover's complexion was as pale as fresh cream. 

"Lina? Love, are you all right?," the pretty secretary asked, sitting down next to her lover and touching her arm with one hand. 

Lina let her head droop forward. "My dear," she said weakly, "my heart nearly leaped from my chest! I thought the dog was attacking you!" 

"Oh." Rhiannon chuckled a little, earning a emerald glare from the other woman. "I'm sorry, Lina," she said, putting a comforting arm around the peer's broad shoulders. "I knew Fyvie wouldn't hurt me. I have a way with animals; sometimes, it's almost as though I know what they're thinking." 

"Indeed?" Lina put her head between her knees and breathed heavily, trying to control the nauseating sensations coursing through her body. She rested her arms on her knees, wrists dangling loosely. The knife dropped to the ground. "Please, the next time you intend do something like that, warn me first, sweetheart," Lina said indistinctly, her voice muffled. "Otherwise, I might succumb from sheer fright." 

Rhiannon leaned against the other woman. With gentle tugs she pulled Lina's torso up and brought her lover's face to rest against her bosom. "I'm sorry, love. I didn't realize you'd be so frightened." 

One of Lina's strong hands stroked Rhiannon's back as she replied, "My dearest love, when you are in danger, I cannot think. I can only react. That is why I strive to keep you from such situations. The thought of losing you is more than I can bear." 

Rhiannon kissed the top of Lina's head. "I promise, I'll be more careful. But really, Lina, I do have some instinct for self preservation. I wouldn't have confronted Fyvie if I'd thought she might attack." 

Both women looked at Fyvie; the wolfhound had stretched herself out on the ground, pointed muzzle resting on her paws. Her amber eyes returned their gaze, then the hound yawned hugely, tongue lolling, exposing what seemed like dozens of razor sharp teeth. 

After a moment, Lina snapped her fingers; Fyvie looked up. "Come, Fyvie," Lina commanded. The wolfhound yawned again and slewed her eyes at Rhiannon, who laughed at Lina's chagrin. 

"I suppose Fyvie thinks I'm the boss," the strawberry blonde said. "Fyvie! Come!" 

The wolfhound bounded to her feet and raced over, shoving her muzzle into Rhiannon's lap, tail whisking back and forth. While Rhiannon held the massive hound, cooing nonsense syllables and stroking her ears, Lina parted the gray-white strands of the hound's tangled coat. "Aha!" she said, and pulled a leather collar into partial view. "See here, my dear! An engraved brass plate set in the leather. So, you belonged to Margaret, eh, pretty beast?" 

Fyvie allowed the peer to pet her, but the moment Rhiannon began paying her attention again, the hound ignored Lina's overtures, preferring to dote on her new mistress. Lina laughed. "Well, sweetheart, it seems as if I am not your only admirer anymore!" 

Rhiannon chuckled. "What on earth are we going to do with her?," she asked. "I'll be glad to take care of her, but..." 

"But?" In the dim light of the little burglar's lamp, Lina's face seemed spectral, her skin made unnaturally pale by the contrasting slash of ebony brows, one of which was raised. 

"Well, I hate to sound like a child to her governess, Lina, but can we keep her?" 

"Will you give her baths, and feed her, and walk her?," the other woman teased, laughing at the abashed expression on Rhiannon's face. 

Lina put her arm around Rhiannon's shoulders and continued, "My dear, of course Fyvie will be returning with us to England. This brave hound will be a criminal's undoing; I should hardly think of rewarding Fyvie by abandoning her. Shall we be friends, do you think?," Lina concluded, looking at the huge wolfhound. 

As if in answer, Fyvie sat down and placed a plate-sized paw on Lina's leg. 

Rhiannon nearly choked, trying to smother a wild giggle at Lina's astonishment. "I'm told wolfhounds are very intelligent," she said when she had recovered. "This proves it. But you said we were hunting a banshee. Now that we've found Fyvie, shouldn't we keep looking?" 

"We have already found the dreaded banshee," the dark-haired women said, putting a hand on Fyvie's head. 

Rhiannon's sky-blue eyes widened. "You mean, Fyvie was the banshee all along?" 

"Yes, my dear. Irish wolfhounds are more closely connected to their wolfish ancestry than almost any other breed of canine; authors have for centuries remarked on the wolf's mournful howl as one of the most melancholy and blood-chilling sounds in nature. It was Fyvie, mourning her mistress, that Violet heard. And again, when you and I were wakened by the so-called banshee's wail. Poor Fyvie - not only did she lose Margaret, she very nearly lost her life." 

"What do you mean?" 

Lina leaned over, unconcernedly tucking the animal's massive head beneath her arm and parted the hair on Fyvie's side. "See? That's a bullet wound, my dear; it ploughed along her side and gouged out a proper bit of flesh. I felt the scabs when I was petting her a few moments ago. If the marksman's aim had been more true, Fyvie would not be here." 

The dark-haired woman sat up. "Now, we shall return to the Abbey, all three of us. Along the way, you must help me plan how to smuggle an animal weighing nearly twelve stones into the house without any witnesses." 

Rhiannon giggled. "Maybe you could carry her up the ivy?" 

Lina's answering glare needed no words; it carried volumes of meaning all on its own. 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The following morning, neither woman went down to breakfast; instead, Rhiannon asked if trays could be sent up, and specifically requested such inordinate amounts of meat that Mrs. Dalyrymple wondered aloud that it was, "...only by God's grace neither one o' ta lassies has ta gout!" 

Fyvie bolted down bacon, sausages, kidneys and kippered herrings impartially. It was clear the wolfhound had not been eating well during her enforced exile. 

Rhiannon spent a little time brushing the hound's coat until every tangle had been smoothed from the rough, shaggy fur. Fyvie clearly enjoyed the attention and kept trying to lick Rhiannon's face while she labored, causing much giggling and contorting to avoid the hound's wet tongue. 

"I swear, Lina! Are you sure this dog isn't related to you?" Rhiannon spluttered after an exceptionally wet "kiss" from Fyvie. 

Lina handed her a handkerchief and snorted. "Of course she is, my dear. We both adore you tremendously. I would emulate my furry cousin but I fear this is neither the time nor the place for such adulation." 

Rhiannon chortled, wiping her face. "Well, I'm ready for anything, I suppose. What's your plan?" 

Swiftly, Lina explained her course of action. Rhiannon nodded, then rose, smoothing the skirts of her dark peach dressing gown. 

"Let's get dressed, then," Rhiannon replied, eyes darkened by pain and anger. "I want to get this sordid business over with and go home as soon as possible." 

Lina rose from the bed where she had been reclining and gathered Rhiannon close. "Sweetheart, I am sorry to have caused you this pain. As soon as we are able, we shall leave this place and I will do my utmost to make it up to you." 

Rhiannon wiped her eyes with a hand. "I know. It's just... the whole thing's so damned unfair!" she said angrily. 

Lina put a finger beneath Rhiannon's chin and tilted her face up. "My dear, I understand how you feel. But remember: Margaret is in a better place now; she cannot be hurt by this anymore and it is best that the truth be revealed." 

Rhiannon drew a deep breath, then removed herself from her lover's arms and marched over to the wardrobe. "All right, then. Help me pick out a dress; something severe, I think." 

Lina looked at her wife with sad eyes... and the two women remained silent while they donned their sartorial armor, prepared to shatter lives and reveal hidden truths that at least one occupant in the house would have preferred remained lost - and had committed murder to do so. 

Lina swept into Sir Gregory's study, a look of satisfaction on her aristocratic features. "Ah!" she exclaimed, "I see we are all here. Good morning." 

Sir Gregory's face was nearly maroon with rage. "What is the meaning of this, my lady?" he barked, mustache bristling with indignation. 

Rhiannon entered the study quietly and shut the door behind her. In the room had gathered all of the people that Lina had instructed to come: Sir Gregory, Violet, Dr. Clarke, Jack Darling, and even old Lord Thomas, who beamed at her from his wicker chair. 

The only stranger to Rhiannon was a tall, self-assured gentleman who stood quietly in one corner. However, she had anticipated his presence; Lina had told her that Inspector Jock McHale from the local constabulary had expressed an interest in the case and agreed to attend the proceedings. 

Lina answered the enraged laird, "Please, calm yourself, Sir Gregory. I assure you, my intentions shall be made plain in just a few moments." 

The tall, elegant beauty surveyed the room with sparkling emerald eyes. "I suppose you are all wondering why I have gathered you here today?" There was a general murmur of assent, and Lina continued, "It is because I wish to tell you a tale. Not a pretty one, I fear, but a tale of greed, blackmail... and murder." 

Sir Gregory shot to his feet. "Ridiculous!" he thundered. "What the Devil do you mean, woman?" 

Lina walked straight up to the laird, separated from him only by the width of the desk he sat behind. She leaned slightly, bringing her eyes at the level of his. "Sit down, Sir Gregory," she said softly, "or..." She left the threat unspoken, but the pudgy laird sank back down into his chair quietly. 

"Now then," the peer continued, walking over to the fireplace mantle. "In order for everyone to understand this tale, we must begin over forty years ago, when a young man met and loved a young woman. But this part of the tale ends tragically... does it not, Lord Thomas?" 

The Duke hung his head. When he looked up, tears glittered in his hazel eyes. "Aye, I loved my bonnie Margaret. But my father forbade ta match; Laird Walter was a hard mun, true. He wanted me ta marry Carolyn Finch-Hatton, a Bristol heiress - her family was inta munitions an' such. Plenty o' money, but ta woman was a cold fish. I dinna want to but.." 

He fell silent and Lina probed, "You did marry Lady Carolyn, didn't you?" 

"Aye." The Duke heaved a sigh. "Much agin' my own inclinations, but aye. Carolyn was a great beauty, an' wealthy ta boot, so I went up ta aisle wit' her even tho' I never loved her. Then I lost my bonnie Maggy, fer she ran away ta London town, an' I ne'er set eyes upon her again till five years ago, when she bought ta Abbey an' come ta visit me an' mine." 

Rhiannon gasped, "But... that's The Woman Scorned!" she exclaimed. "That's the plot!" 

"Precisely, my dear." Lina bestowed a look of fond affection on her partner. "I remember a novelist friend once told me that the greatest piece of advice he gave young authors was, 'Write what you know.' Margaret's first novel was extraordinary; only someone who had lived that tragedy could have invoked it so well." 

Lady Evangeline turned back to the Duke. "And what happened after your marriage, Your Grace? Or would you prefer me to continue it?" 

"Ye go on, Lady Lina. After my talk wit' ye last night, I've nae more stomach fer ta wretched, sorry tale." 

Lady Evangeline smiled slightly, every eye in the room fixed on her as she leaned one elbow casually against the mantle. Flicking her ruffled skirts, Lina said, "Well, then. Margaret Kincaid was with child when she fled Scotland; Lord Thomas did not know. For a while, Margaret worked in a tavern in Haymarket, until she became too far along for her to conceal her condition anymore. 

"Desperate and living in a workhouse for the poor, she wrote Lord Thomas, begging for his assistance - a letter which he never received. His new wife, Lady Carolyn, intercepted Margaret's plea and determined upon a malicious scheme. 

"Owing to an attack of fever as a young girl, Lady Carolyn was sterile; she could not bear children. And she knew Lord Thomas did not love her; had, in fact, preferred a poor, common man's daughter to her own blue blood. So, she went to London and sought Margaret out for two reasons; first, to gain a child of Thomas's blood to bind him to her; and second, for revenge against the woman her husband still loved." 

The Duke interrupted, "I ne'er forgot my Maggy! Not e'en when that she-devil wife o' mine told me she were dead, killed in childbed." 

Lina nodded. "Yes. Lady Carolyn told Margaret that Lord Thomas was uninterested in a cast-off, light-virtued woman but he would adopt the child she carried, since it carried some of his blood. Margaret believed her; she had no choice. Faced with a bleak future and an equally bleak past, Margaret gave up her newborn son to Lady Carolyn, hoping her child would be cherished and given all the things she could not. In return, she received five hundred pounds and a strong hint to leave England forever." 

By now, every eye had turned on Sir Gregory, who sat stock still in his chair. Lina continued, "You, Sir Gregory, were that child. Son of Lord Thomas and Margaret Kincaid. Lady Carolyn returned to Templemoor and gave His Grace a highly edited version of accounts, painting herself as a jealous wife who nevertheless, out of compassion, tried to take care of the ailing Margaret... and then lied, saying Margaret was dead." 

Sir Gregory's mouth worked. "You... you...," he sputtered, eyes glazed with shock. "How did you...?" 

"How did I find out?" Lina cocked her head to one side. "I suspected it from the moment I read The Woman Scorned. Last night, after pleading a headache, I crept back downstairs and went to Templemoor. Your father is far from addled, despite your efforts to bruit that pitiful story about. I persuaded His Grace to tell me the whole story. He further told me that you knew - you had known the truth about your heritage for months. Tell me - why did you not reveal to Rhiannon that you and she were cousins?" 

Sir Gregory's face paled. "I... I...," he began, but stopped. 

Lady Evangeline smiled but it did not touch her eyes, which were stormy with barely suppressed anger. "When you found out, you were, at first, appalled. Everything your mother, Lady Carolyn, had told you was a lie. But she raised you in the fine tradition of the British aristocracy, didn't she, Sir Gregory? And the first tenant of that tradition is: If you see something you want, take it! And that is when your dirty little scheme first began... 

"You needed money. Desperately. You knew Margaret had it; that poor woman welcomed you into her home, considering you her long lost son, wanting nothing more than to love you - and all you could think about was getting your hands on her money. You told me she was far from wealthy, but twenty thousand pounds could go a long way towards erasing your debts, and then there was the Abbey itself..." 

Violet said, "But we're rich! Aren't we, father?" Sir Gregory said nothing; he did not even glance at his daughter. His eyes were locked on the woman who leaned casually against the fireplace mantle. 

Lady Evangeline continued, "His Grace told me you had quite heavy gambling debts, Sir Gregory. That you were a poor businessman and he gave you an allowance that should have been sufficient for your needs... but it did not. You have expensive tastes; no amount would have been enough." 

Sir Gregory let out a strangled groan, his fists clenched. His pale daughter, Violet, was agog. "But... what?...," Violet stuttered miserably and was waved to silence by the implacable Lina. 

The peer fixed a stern gaze on the suffering figure of Sir Gregory. "I asked your father about his will last night. He told me that when he dies, the estate and title escheat to you, but all His Grace's wealth will go to Violet. You needed money, quickly, and would go to any lengths to get it. You knew your father would reject any question of a loan; his solicitor is in London, and it would be difficult to persuade that worthy to go along with a criminal fraud. That is when you began to think and wonder about Margaret. And soon, that wondering turned to action." 

Sir Gregory shook his head. "No, it wasn't like that... I swear!" 

Lady Evangeline shook her head. "It was a cold-blooded scheme, Sir Gregory. You began to poison Margaret with arsenic, a little at a time, increasing the dosage carefully to give the impression of a lingering illness." 

"What!" Dr. Clarke sprang to his feet, a lock of dark brown hair hanging over one eyes. "What do you mean, poisoned?" 

Lina chuckled. "You really mean to ask, 'How dare I accuse you of incompetence?' Oh, do sit down, doctor. You are a young man and scarcely to be blamed for your lack of experience. Many doctors, some of them veterans of the surgery, mistake arsenic poisoning for gastric fever; the symptoms are nearly identical, except for two things." 

She waited while Dr. Clarke thought. Slowly, he said, "Hair loss and dryness of the mouth..." 

"That is correct. I already had suspicions concerning Margaret's death. Your information confirmed them. Someone had poisoned her. As the ancient Romans suggest, I now had to ask myself one question: Sui bono? Who benefits?" Lady Evangeline looked at Sir Gregory again. "The answer was: Sir Gregory." 

He opened his mouth to deny this, but finally sank back in on himself, slowly deflating. "How? How did you guess?" 

"I never guess." Lina's voice was proud. "My deductions are based on my observations. You made two mistakes, Sir Gregory. The will... and Mrs. Babcock." 

Even Rhiannon, who had known all about this beforehand, leaned forward in breathless anticipation, echoing the posture of the spectators in the study. 

"Mrs. Babcock," Lina continued, "a greedy woman who was to prove your undoing." 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"As a professional nurse," Lina said, "she must have recognized the symptoms of the poison that was once called 'inheritance powder.' She confronted you and you took her into your confidence. That was a mistake, Sir Gregory. You should have known she could not be trusted." 

Sir Gregory grimaced. "That damned woman gave me no choice," he said. "It was either that or..." 

Lina gave him a grim little smile. "Or face black-hooded Jack Ketch on the gallows for poisoning your own mother? So, she wanted... what? Money is, I believe, the most likely answer." 

Sir Gregory nodded. His lobster-red face bore a faint sheen of sweat. "Yes. She wanted money." 

"But that was not all, was it? If Mrs. Babcock had merely taken her share and kept quiet, you could have lived with that. You are not a terribly brave man, Sir Gregory. You really do not have the stomach for cold-blooded murder. Which is why, after Mrs. Babcock babbled to Rhiannon and myself about Margaret's last days, you knew you had to kill her." 

"Yes." The laird's blue eyes were fogged by remembrance. "She nearly told you the secret, didn't she... she said I was as attentive as a son..." 

"I imagine you did not really plan it well. You lured her to the church ruins, probably with some story or another; the how of it is not important. But you had seen Fyvie, Margaret's wolfhound, near those ruins. Fyvie would not let you near her; she is a cunning animal and knew you had somehow caused harm to her mistress. So you fell upon Mrs. Babcock and sawed through her throat with one of your tribal weapons. The obsidian knife, was it not? The jagged edged weapon that hangs on the wall of the front room, along with the rest of your collection of weaponry?" 

"Yesssss," Sir Gregory hissed, his hands clenching and unclenching convulsively. 

"You wanted to make it appear as if Mrs. Babcock had been attacked by a wild animal. You also hoped that Fyvie would be blamed; you could not mention it yourself lest you be suspect, but believed that sooner or later, the wolfhound's lair in the ruins would be discovered and the natural connection made. However, when I examined the woman's death wound, I saw the marks could not have been made by an animal's fangs. The wound was too clean, the edges ragged but not ragged enough. I also found a splinter of obsidian in the wound, which I have already given to Inspector McHale. I imagine you were too frightened to make sure you left no trace of your weapon on the body." 

"I wiped away my footprints. I washed the knife off in the lake. But there was so much blood..." The laird's tone was sullen. 

Rhiannon was fascinated by Sir Gregory in spite of herself. He was rocking back and forth a little now, his lower lips pushed out like a spoiled child who has been denied a treat. With a flash, she suddenly realized that this was precisely what the laird was - a spoiled, overly pampered child who had been denied nothing in his life... and had turned to murder to obtain what he wanted but couldn't have any other way. 

Lina continued, "I suspect you did not know how much blood there would be, gushing from such a severe throat wound. You hurried back to the Abbey and washed up, burning your blood stained shirt." 

Lady Evangeline reached into the pocket of her skirt and produced a small, blackened object. "I found this sleeve stud in the fireplace grate of your bedroom, Sir Gregory. I recognized it as one I had seen that evening at dinner - in your shirt sleeve." 

For the first time, Jock McHale spoke. "May I have that, milady?," he asked mildly. 

The peer handed the stud to the Inspector, who examined it and placed it in the pocket of his uniform tunic. At Dr. Clarke's questioning look, McHale said solemnly, "Evidence." 

Lina smiled. "You should also commandeer the obsidian blade I mentioned, Constable. I believe the normal laboratory tests should indicate that the rust-stains evident on the handle are human blood." 

McHale nodded. 

"As to the will," Lady Evangeline said, "Here we have an entirely different kettle of fish. The will which was read to us the other night was nothing more than a forgery, a fraud. In fact, Margaret left everything to someone other than yourself, Sir Gregory." She radiated such calm assurance that the laird nodded automatically. 

"It was Mrs. Babcock who gave me my first clue as to that. She told us that after one of Margaret's attacks, she was too weak to do anything but lay there with Fyvie beside her. I found a fruit knife on the bedside table in the sickroom; the blade was silver and uncommonly dull. Since I have frequently sliced my finger on a fruit knife or two, I knew this was not the normal state of affairs - such articles are kept razor keen. It was then that I knew what Margaret had been doing... and why." 

Rhiannon looked at Sir Gregory, sky-blue eyes filled with venom. "Even at the end, she defied you!" she spat. "You made up the false will and forced her to sign it, and having Mrs. Babcock there only made it better for you - she knew what you were doing and participated out of greed. But Great-Aunt Margaret was stronger than you could ever imagine, you bastard." Her eyes welled with tears and her voice shook. 

Lina crossed the room and laid a comforting hand on Rhiannon's shoulder. "Yes, Margaret was a cunning and resourceful woman. Knowing her loyal servants had been dismissed by Sir Gregory, she had no one to turn to... except you, Mr. Darling. Will you share with us, please, what you know?" 

The weathered gardener touched his cap with one finger. "I was passin' by ta window, milady, when I heard Fyvie barkin' fit ta beat ta Devil. So, I come into ta house, figurin' Miss Kincaid was dyin' an' wantin' ta pay my respects. She were a great lady, that one. 

"Nobody seen me or I'da been dismissed on ta spot. Only she weren't dead. Miss Kincaid asked me ta bring her some papers out o' her study; she told me where they were an' all. I did it; only I never knew what them papers might o' been." Darling gave the peer a rueful grin. 

"That is quite all right, Mr. Darling. In her original will, Margaret must have left some sums to you and to Rhiannon; Lord Gregory dared not change too much, lest she might have mentioned the contents of her will to someone he could not control or put off... like his father." Lady Evangeline crossed back to the fireplace. 

"Day after day she lay there, lucid despite frequent fits of agony. Margaret must have known you were responsible for her condition, although I imagine at first, she must have rejected the idea out of hand. But when you brought the false will, demanding that she sign, she had to have realized that you and Mrs. Babcock were in collusion. So she did the only thing she could do - she hid her original will, hoping it would be found and Sir Gregory's perfidy exposed." 

Sir Gregory spoke; his voice was dull and heavy, his shoulders bowed. "Where did she hide it? I turned the sickroom upside-down when I realized it was missing." 

Lina smiled triumphantly. "The answer to that question will be with us shortly." The dark-haired woman strode to the study door and opened it, emitting a piercing whistle. 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A gray-brown blur shot through the door, stopping at Rhiannon's knee. It was Fyvie; the wolfhound was panting with excitement, her tail whipping back and forth gleefully. 

Rhiannon put her arms around the dog and patted her. "Good girl," she whispered, and Fyvie licked her ear. 

But when the wolfhound noticed Sir Gregory, she lifted her upper lip and growled, moving stiff-legged to interpose herself between Rhiannon and the wide-eyed laird. 

Lady Evangeline shut the door and walked back to the fireplace. "Fyvie," she said, "was truer to her mistress then she will ever know. Did you know she wears a very thick, very heavy leather collar?" The peer patted her thigh with one hand and said, "Come here, Fyvie." 

Reluctantly, the wolfhound obeyed the peer's command. Every hair on the dog's shaggy coat stood on end and she eyed Sir Gregory with hate-filled amber orbs. Ignoring the dog's behavior, Lady Evangeline bent and removed Fyvie's collar. 

"Do you remember the fruit knife? Margaret was too weak to conceal the will in the house. She also feared that, if it were left in the Abbey, Sir Gregory would find it and destroy it. Margaret did the only thing she could - she trusted her beloved hound, a gift from the man she had loved for over forty years." 

Lina held up the collar. With the strength of her hands, she pulled two sides apart from a slit that had been made on the underside of the thick leather, and pulled out several sheets of foolscap, tightly fan-folded into a thin cylinder. "This is how she concealed it, Sir Gregory. Every day, she used that silver fruit knife to surreptitiously carve a cavity into the depths of Fyvie's collar. That is why she insisted on having Fyvie with her at all hours; she needed the time to work. And neither Mrs. Babcock nor you ever suspected a thing." 

She brandished the papers before unfolding them. Clearing her throat, the peer read, "I, Margaret Gloriana Kincaid, being of sound mind and body, do hereby declare this to be my last will and testament..." 

As Lina continued to read, Rhiannon pressed one hand to her bosom. Mrs. Babcock had not been mentioned at all; Jack Darling's legacy increased by a further two thousand pounds; and she - she was to inherit Montrose Abbey and everything else! 

Sir Gregory watched Lina with dull blue eyes and lips so stiff they were bloodless. The dark-haired woman read, "...and to my natural son, Sir Gregory MacLellan, I leave the letters I wrote to his cousin, Mary, in the hopes he will seek her daughter, Rhiannon, and welcome her into his family. I further leave him the sum of five hundred pounds and pray that he may forgive me for abandoning him when he was but a newborn child." 

Lina looked at Sir Gregory and said ironically, "It was not necessary to change much, was it? A mere matter of a substitution of names, the deletion of a little material, and voila! A new will spun from nothing but thin air and your own imagination." 

She handed the will to Inspector McHale, who took it and scanned it gravely before folding it back up and holding out his large hand for the collar. Lina gave it to him, continuing, "Margaret hoped someone would find the true will. You must have known the contents; did you draw it up for her?" 

"Yes," Sir Gregory replied. His blue eyes were bloodshot and his hands trembled. "After I made it for her... that ungrateful bitch!," he spat suddenly. "All I did for her and she left me some worthless papers and a few pounds! I put those blasted letters back into the box - I cared nothing for them. I hated Margaret for that; father must have told her how my creditors were breathing down my neck, and she would go on and on about how much she loved me... but she never offered a bloody penny!" 

The Duke spoke up. "Nay, boy," he said sadly, "Maggy dinna know aboot yer circumstances, fer I did not tell her. She was so happy, you see, just havin' ye near agin'; I could nae destroy her happiness by tellin' her that her wee baby boy was a no good wastrel, an' a waster, an' a rogue ta boot." 

Lord Thomas looked at Lina and spread his crippled hands wide. "I know I shoulda ta'en better care o' ta lad when he was younger, but ta truth was I was still grievin' fer Maggy. Carolyn... she twisted Gregory when he was a wee child, fillin' his head with all sorts o' nonsense. By ta time I twigged on what was happenin', it was too late. He were ruined. An' now he's gone and killed my Maggy... Oh, my boy! How could ye?" A single tear traced its way down the Duke's wrinkled cheek. 

Lina looked at the Duke with compassion. "I am truly sorry, Your Grace. But I could not allow a murderer to get off freely." 

She turned to Inspector McHale and asked, "Do you have any questions?" 

Jock McHale considered for a moment, then shook his head. "Nay," he said, "I believe I've heard enough. Sir Gregory MacLellan, I charge you wit' ta murders o' Mrs. Amanda Babcock and Miss Margaret Kincaid. I'm sure ta coroner will wish an exhumation of both bodies; if arsenic is found in Miss Kincaid's, ye'll hang fer sure." 

Sir Gregory sat there a long moment, his daughter Violet weeping, her face buried in her hands. He rose and lifted his face... and his burning blue eyes sought the figure of the woman who had been his undoing. 

With an inarticulate bellow of maddened rage, the laird launched himself at the startled peer, moving at an incredible speed despite his bulk. In one hand, he held a letter opener that had been on his desk, and the little blade flashed in the morning sunlight, looking sharp enough to slash the wind. 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Time seemed to slow down to a syrupy crawl.

McHale cried out and moved to stop the laird, but fell back, the long, deep cut across his face spurting blood.

The Duke flung out his hand in a futile gesture.

Dr. Clarke cowered back a moment, then leaped to his feet, too late.

Violet screamed.

And Rhiannon leaped to her feet and began a desperate charge that would put her own body between her lover and the insane Sir Gregory. 

A thundering snarl of pure hatred filled the room, as hair raising and soul chilling as the banshee's wail. A gray-brown blur flew through the air as Fyvie, enraged at this threat to her newly beloved mistress by one she already despised, launched her one hundred and sixty-four pounds of pure muscle and fury straight towards Sir Gregory's throat. 

The laird went down beneath the attack... and time speeded up again. 

Lina drew a shaking hand through her dark hair. She had been prepared to meet Sir Gregory's charge, her trained reflexes responding to the threat, but her heart had nearly stopped when Rhiannon had thrown herself into danger's path. 

Without her staff, Lina thought, my sweetheart would be helpless against a man who outweighs her by a good hundred pounds or better. I had best coax her into that baritsu training as soon as we return to London. 

Rhiannon, after a glance at Lina to make sure she was all right, stood over Fyvie and Sir Gregory. The wolfhound growled softly, her white fangs denting the skin of the laird's throat. A trickle of blood came from her side where the desperate man had thrust the letter opener at the animal; the knife was buried to the hilt in Fyvie's rough coat. 

No one moved; no one even dared breathe. Except Rhiannon. 

The strawberry-blonde laid her hand gently on Fyvie's head, ignoring the dog's small snarl. "Let him go, Fyvie," she said softly. "It's all right, girl. Let him go." 

Reluctantly, still growling beneath her breath, Fyvie obeyed, backing away but keeping herself between the terrified laird and Rhiannon. 

When Sir Gregory made as if to get up, Fyvie snarled savagely, the ruff around her neck rising. The laird hastily lay back down again; the insane rage that had been in his blue eyes replaced by fear. 

Inspector McHale loomed over the fallen man, Dr. Clarke's handkerchief pressed to the cut on his face. "Ye'll hafta come wit' me now, Sir Gregory," he said. "An' come along quiet now, or..." He held up one fist that looked as big and strong as an oak knot. 

Rhiannon and Lina exchanged a glance and a small smile of relief as the laird was led away by McHale, Sir Gregory's shoulders hunched, an expression of sheer defeat on his florid face. 

Two days later, Lady Evangeline reclined on the sofa in the sitting room of their private railcar 'The Princess Bride' as it sped back to England on the back of The Flying Scotsman train. Rhiannon was puttering around in the tiny kitchen; before they'd left Edinburgh, Lina had it restocked from one of that city's finest restaurants. 

Rhiannon emerged carrying a tray. "Do you remember the last time I brought you lunch?" she asked mischievously. 

Lina smiled. "How could I forget! I did not know you were so enamored of  Tom Jones, sweetheart. Or so inventive." 

Rhiannon returned her over's smile. She wore a sheer silk dressing gown of teal blue flounced with ruffles and lace... and nothing underneath. 

Rhiannon gracefully set the tray down on a table and perched down on the edge of the sofa next to the reclining peer. "Since I now have wealth in my own right, love, I'll be able to give you some fine gifts as well." 

Lina took Rhiannon's fine-boned hand and kissed it. "You are the only gift I require, my dear," she said gallantly while the strawberry-blonde blushed. 

Fyvie lay down in one corner of the room. The wolfhound's powerful jaws cracked a marrowbone she held between two paws; her old leather collar commandeered by the police, she now wore a brand new collar of dark blue studded with silver. Across her middle was stretched a band of linen; she was healing well from her wound, thanks to the services of a chagrined Dr. Clarke. 

Rhiannon glanced at the wolfhound. "Thank you for letting me bring her, Lina," she said. 

The peer answered simply, "How could I refuse? She saved your life and possibly mine as well." Lina shuddered. "If only I could make you realize, Rhiannon, how much you mean to me! If Sir Gregory had harmed you... well, I could not live if anything were to happen to you." 

Rhiannon stroked Lina's face gently. "I know. And now you know, love, how I feel every time you leave me to go on one of your mad quests. Every moment, I can't help wondering where you are, if you're hurt, if a peeler will come knocking, helmet in hand, to tell me you're dead. At least if I were there, if I tried... but you rarely give me the chance." 

Lina pulled Rhiannon down on top of her, feeling the other woman's heart beating against her chest. "Yes. I think I finally understand, my dear. Is that truly how you feel?" 

"Yes," Rhiannon answered fiercely. "I love you, Evangeline. I want to live the rest of my life with you." She interlaced her fingers with Lina's and squeezed. "I'm so terrified at the thought of you getting hurt! I know you were doing this sort of thing a long time before you met me but I'm frightened all the same!" 

Lina kissed the top of Rhiannon's head. "All right, my dear. I fully understand how you feel, now that it has been drummed into my thick skull often enough. Rest assured - I will never fail to consider your feelings again, if you will promise to do the same." 

Rhiannon snuggled her face down between the valley of Lina's breasts. "I promise," she replied. "Do you think Sir Gregory will hang?" 

Lina looked thoughtful. "I honestly do not know. It is possible, despite the admittedly slender evidence against him, that a jury will declare him guilty. If they do not, however, His Grace has determined to have his son placed in a private sanitarium; either way, my love, he will never trouble anyone again." 

"Poor Violet," Rhiannon murmured. "Her father a murderer twice over. I did offer to let her stay at the Abbey." 

"Yes, you did, and it was a gallant gesture, my dear. But I think the chit is better off with her grandfather; the Duke is certainly not going to put up with her morbid airs for long. In time, she might even grow to be a fairly normal young woman." 

Rhiannon sighed. "I did invite her to visit us in London, you know. And I promised Lord Thomas we'd visit him sometime next year." 

"Yes, my dear," Lina said, stroking Rhiannon's hair. "Perhaps next season, if you wish. But for right now... my own plans are simple: I want to go home." 

Rhiannon kissed Lina's collarbone. "Me, too," she replied simply. 

They lay together, wrapped in love and contentment, as the train sped back to London... 

Taking them back, far away from murder and madness... taking them home. 

EPILOGUE

I exult alone in one wild hour -
That hour in which the red cup drowns
The memories it anon renews
In ghastlier guise, in fiercer power -
Then Fancy brings me golden crowns
And visions of all brilliant hues
Lap my lost soul in gladness,
Until I wake again,
And the dark lava-fires of madness
Once more sweep through my brain.
----- James Clarence Mangan, Shapes and Signs

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The Hour of the Jackal by Nene Adams ©1998 - All rights reserved

This on-line novel contains graphic violence, adult situations and language, and the depiction of a romantic relationship between two mature, adult women. Reader discretion is advised. No unauthorized copying or duplication or publishing in any format, electronic or otherwise, will be permitted without the express, written consent of the author.

PROLOGUE

I am dying, Egypt, dying;
only I here importune death awhile, until
Of many thousand kisses the poor last
I lay upon your lips.
-----Shakespeare, Anthony and Cleopatra

CHAPTER ONE

London
August 1889

Rhiannon cursed beneath her breath and pushed a straggling lock of red-gold hair off her forehead with the back of her hand. She was leaning so far into the deep traveling trunk that she was practically standing on her head and there was no end to her frenzied packing in sight. 

Cairo... It had better be as good as the Cook's brochures, she thought sourly. Rhiannon had been so excited at the prospect of traveling to exotic Egypt that she'd wanted to leap around and clap her hands with glee. It was finally August; she and Lina would be leaving in the morning on the trip the peer had given her last Christmas. 

But as of eleven o'clock this morning, their trunks still hadn't been packed, due mostly to the fact that Solange, Lina's ladies maid, had already left for Egypt, sent ahead to make ''arrangements'' - and Lina herself had flitted off on some errand earlier that afternoon. 

Leaving me to deal with the logistics of packing enough clothing to last our trip, taking into account every possible contingency, since I'm sure we won't be able to purchase anything important once we're away, Rhiannon thought. 

She leaned forward further, the edge of the trunk digging into her belly, heels actually lifting off the floor, and shoved aside a pile of lacy underthings to make room for another shoe bag. Rhiannon was so engrossed in her packing that she failed to hear soft footsteps behind her... 

A hard hand clapped itself to her rounded buttocks and a deep voice boomed, '''Ello, me pretty!'' 

With a shriek, Rhiannon leaped up, banging her head with a sickening crack on the open lid of the trunk. Fireworks exploded in her vision as she instinctively put one hand to the back of her head and tried to turn around, eyes watering, already wondering where her staff was and how an intruder could have gotten into the house. With hammering heart, she tried to ignore the sudden, sharp sensations of dizziness and nausea that threatened to bring her to her knees and just let her instincts take over. 

Her pale blue eyes took in the blurred vision of a tall, well-set man standing in front of her as she spun around, and the endless drills Lina had put her through in the mysterious Oriental martial discipline known as baritsu suddenly took over. With a pained grunt, Rhiannon struck out with one fist straight to the stranger's solar plexus, swinging her arm with all the weight of her body behind it as she had been taught. Breath exploded from his lungs as the man folded over and collapsed, struggling and gasping. 

Rhiannon turned to run, knowing her only hope was to get downstairs and get help, visions of rape and bloody murder running through her brain, but she was stopped in her tracks when a familiar voice wheezed, ''Wait.'' 

Rhiannon whipped around, strawberry-blonde hair loosened from its pins and swirling to her hips, her head throbbing. She blinked and her vision cleared. It was Lina who knelt on the floor, both arms wrapped around her middle - Lina in her men's costume with a sickly smile on her beautiful face. 

Slowly, Rhiannon walked towards the woman she had wed, one hand rubbing the back of her aching head. Helplessly, she said, ''Lina?'' 

Lady Evangeline St. Claire managed to get her breathing under control enough to speak. ''Yes, my dear,'' she replied, pushing herself up off the floor. ''None other.'' She rubbed her stomach but bestowed a proud smile on Rhiannon, tickled that the smaller woman had managed to take her by surprise. 

Rhiannon was speechless. She struggled to find something to say, then settled for, ''Why?'' 

''Oh, you mean my little greeting?'' Lina left off rubbing her abused middle and dusted off the knees of her dark gray trousers. ''I am sorry, my dear. I only meant to surprise you, not cause undue alarm. Did you strike your head?'' 

Rhiannon nodded. Part of her wanted to strangle the peer and the other part wanted to howl in laughter... only her head hurt too much for either right now. ''Yes. You know, Lina, you shouldn't do that. What if I'd had a knife or something?'' 

''Well, apart from the fact that one rarely has a knife to hand when one is packing underclothes and the like, the opportunity was too great to resist. Rhiannon, you have no idea how tempting you looked, leaning over in that fashion.'' Lina sighed. ''You really do have the loveliest rounded extremities, my dear.'' 

Rhiannon rolled her eyes. ''Lina, we really don't have time for this. I have to finish packing! You know Solange is gone, and there's no use in asking Buttercup for help, and you've been gone all morning, and now I've got the worst headache, and it's really all too much!'' She felt like bursting into tears of frustration and anger but gulped them down. Rhiannon hated it that she cried whenever overcome by emotion; it made her feel like a weakling. 

''Shhh,'' Lina crooned, enfolding the smaller woman in her arms and bestowing a gentle kiss on her forehead. ''I am truly, truly sorry. I assure you it was meant as a jest, nothing more. I certainly did not mean for you to injure yourself.'' She kissed the tip of Rhiannon's nose. ''Shall I have Cook bring up some ice for your head?'' 

''No,'' Rhiannon replied, rubbing the sore spot and wincing a little. ''I'll live. Really, love, I had no idea it required so much packing just to take a little trip! I guess I'm overtired; maybe I'll take a little nap and finish later.'' 

Lina's emerald green eyes were filled with concern. ''What the Devil have you been packing?'' she asked. 

''Everything needed by two gentlewomen of means who are traveling to a foreign country,'' Rhiannon replied sharply. ''We'll need at least four changes of clothing each day, plus all the undergarments, stockings, shoes, accessories, jewelry... nmot to mention toilet articles, medical supplies like arnica and ipecac, and the like. I think we should just pack up the entire house and move to Egypt! It would save me considerable time, anyway.'' 

Despite herself, Rhiannon realized there was a small, sullen note in her tone and she was slightly ashamed. Lina is only trying to give me a treat, she scolded herself. Don't spoil it by acting like a child!

If Lina noticed Rhiannon's tone, she didn't mention it. ''But my dear!'' she exclaimed. ''Surely you don't think we'll be staying in some barbarous outpost, surrounded by hostile natives with no relief in sight! We will hardly be following the gallant Gordon's footsteps, you know.'' 

Lina's mention of the siege of Khartoum - where the Mahdi's forces had slaughtered General ''Chinese'' Gordon and his men less than five years previously - made Rhiannon shudder. ''I hope we'll be safe,'' she muttered. 

''My dear, we shall be perfectly safe! We will be staying at Shepheard's Hotel in Cairo for a few days - and I assure you it is quite the height of European elegance - then we will be off on our Cook's tour and down the Nile by steam! I really cannot wait to show you the ruins at Karnak! And while we are in Cairo, I intend to take you to Mena House for dinner one night and show you the moonlight over the pyramids. It is quite romantic,'' Lina concluded, giving Rhiannon a significant look. 

Despite her painful head, Rhiannon felt herself melting. She marveled at the effect Lina had on her. All she has to do is look at me with those amazing eyes, Rhiannon thought, and all I can think about is how much I love her.

Lina was continuing, ''In any case, my dear, light packing is the order of the day. We shan't be expected to dress for dinner on the boat over, or on the train for that matter. Some simple dresses will suffice.'' 

''But what will we wear in Cairo?'' Rhiannon asked, brows drawn together in a frown. 

''Pack a few evening gowns. Solange is taking care of some new clothing for us - it will be waiting at the hotel. We will require the big trunks but there really is no need to bring an entire wardrobe. We will need jewelry, however, and toilet articles. But do not worry, my dear!'' Lina said, hugging Rhiannon. ''Anything forgotten thing can be easily acquired in the marketplace.'' 

Rhiannon felt a vast sense of relief, as if an enormous burden had been lifted off her shoulders. ''Well, I'm glad to hear that! I really had no idea what to pack, Lina. You weren't here and Solange was gone...'' 

''My poor darling!'' Lina said sympathetically. ''And I neglected to tell you anything! That is soon put aright, however. I am here and we shall have these trunks packed in a trice. And afterward... I do not suppose you will feel the need for a bath before your nap?'' 

Rhiannon giggled. ''A bath? Only if I can persuade a certain tall, beautiful and buxom woman to join me.'' 

Lina smiled. ''I believe that may be arranged,'' she murmured, releasing Rhiannon. Whirling around, the dark-haired woman began sorting through the myriad dresses hanging in the enormous wardrobe, flipping through them like a deck of cards. It was obvious that she was impatient and Rhiannon knew why. 

Rhiannon walked over and pressed herself against Lina's back, putting her arms around the taller woman's waist. ''I do love you,'' she said simply. 

Lina stopped, then pulled one of Rhiannon's hands up to her lips and kissed it. ''And I love you as well,'' she answered. With a sigh, the peer began sorting again. 

Rhiannon chuckled. This will probably be the swiftest packing in female sartorial history!, she thought, and felt a flush of heat that made her catch her breath. Suddenly, she was impatient to finish as well. 

Letting go of Lina, Rhiannon raced to the dresser and began pulling out undergarments, shawls and stockings, flinging them into the trunk with abandon. As she hurried, in her imagination she heard the opening bars of the Ascot races played by bugles, and an announcer bawl, ''They're off!'' 

She giggled again... headache all but forgotten. 

CHAPTER TWO

Boats and trains, trains and boats, days of boring travel... and now she was in Egypt! Rhiannon exulted, a delighted smile curving her lips as she walked at Lina's side through the Muski, the main thoroughfare through Old Cairo. Modern looking buildings and shops lined the crowded street and narrow alleyways pierced the busy artery of traffic, leading to more shops in the bazaars, more adventures... 

Vendors carrying wooden trays around their necks or balanced on their heads loudly hawked their merchandise on every corner. Dealers in fake scarabs were doing a brisk business with European travelers, while vendors of fly-covered sweetmeats were kept busy warding off the swarms of naked children who danced and played among the forest of adult legs. 

The two women side-stepped into a narrow covered passageway that led to a small square with a public fountain. There, veiled women in ragged black clothes gossiped; one boldly pointed at Rhiannon and giggled. 

Rhiannon looked down at her costume; it was certainly the strangest thing she had ever worn but she had to admit it was also the most comfortable and eminently suitable for Egypt's harsh climate. Wide-legged Turkish trousers of peacock blue had been tucked into knee-length boots; a white shirtwaist, the neck undone and sleeves rolled up, allowed her to stay reasonably cool despite the heat. Instead of hat, Rhiannon carried a silk parasol with a strong steel shaft, and like Lina, kept her money in a pouch that was tied around her neck and tucked into her shirt. 

Lina wore a similar costume, but her trousers were pale leaf green, and she wore a colorfully embroidered vest over her shirtwaist. Disdaining a parasol, the dark-haired peer wore a pith helmet tilted back on her head and a wide leather belt wrapped around her waist held a pair of holstered pistols. Lina also had a knife tucked into the top of each boot; despite her assurances to Rhiannon, she knew that Cairo was a seething hotbed of crime and not all criminal activities could be laid at the doorstep of the natives. 

Walking leisurely, they entered the Khan el Khaleel, the bazaar of the metalworkers. Small shops lined the street, with the stone benches called mastabas in front; customers sat on the mastabas while the proprietor produced glittering merchandise from locked boxes within the shop. 

Rhiannon suddenly gasped as they threaded their way through the crowded bazaar. She plucked Lina's sleeve. ''Lina, I'd like to go over there,'' she said, pointing at the dark doorway of a small shop. 

With a shrug and a smile, Lina led Rhiannon to her destination. The mastaba in front of the shop was occupied, but upon seeing the two European women, the customer quickly vacated his seat, much to the disgust of the shop's owner - a small, round man with enormous mustaches and an immaculate green turban that bulged on the top of his head like a ripe cabbage. 

Rhiannon seated herself gracefully, Lina looming behind her with a scowl. Instantly, the shop keeper's sour expression changed to one of ingratiating politeness. ''How may I assist the honored sitt?'' he asked in honeyed tones. 

''A few moments ago, when we were passing, I saw the most extraordinary necklace. Could I see it again?'' 

''Of course,'' the man answered. Flitting back into his shop, he quickly emerged with a necklace stretched between his hands. It was a wide collar of gold, the links of the chain heavy and elaborately carved into leaping leopards. Polished balls of turquoise and lapis lazuli were interposed between the skillfully rendered cats. The owner smiled. ''Does the honored sitt speak of this poor offering?'' he asked, mustaches bobbing. 

''Oh, my word,'' Rhiannon breathed, stretching out one hand. ''May I?'' she asked, and gasped again when the magnificent necklace weighted her palm. She turned it over, the sun striking sparks from the highly polished surfaces. Her mouth firmed; looking at the proprietor with ice-blue eyes, Rhiannon said, ''If there are matching earrings and a bracelet, I will buy the set. If the price is right.'' 

As the proprietor leaped back into his shop with an alacrity that belied his years, Lina put one hand on Rhiannon's shoulder. ''Perhaps you had better allow me to bargain with the fellow, my dear,'' she said softly. ''These shopkeepers s are shrewd and pride themselves on cheating Europeans.'' 

Rhiannon shook her head. ''I'll be fine,'' she replied. ''Why don't you go to the bazaar of the leatherworkers, Lina? I know you said you wanted to find some slippers for Jackson and the rest.'' 

Lina frowned. ''Are you positive, my dear? I may be some time...'' 

''Yes, I'm sure. Go on, go on,'' Rhiannon said, flapping her free hand like a farmwife shooing errant chickens. ''Come back when you're finished. I'll be waiting for you.'' 

''Very well.'' Lina was full of misgivings but did not want to provoke a fight in the middle of the crowded bazaar. Rhiannon is an adult, she reminded herself, and fully capable of defending herself against unwanted attentions. If nothing else, I have seen to that.

Bending down to plant a tender kiss on the back of Rhiannon's neck, Lina murmured, ''I shall return as soon as humanly possible.'' 

The peer strode away, pushing herself through the throng, not realizing that her passage was watched by two pairs of hostile eyes.

An hour later, Rhiannon had concluded her bargaining and was flushed with success. Not only had she gotten the set for a price that seemed laughably low, she had also gotten the owner to throw in a few pretty bracelets of faience beads. The package was on its way to the hotel and she couldn't wait to see the necklace, earrings and bracelet adorning her beloved Lina. 

I wonder if I could get her to wear them with nothing else on, she wondered, licking her lips at the provocative image of Lina adorned in barbaric gold, the sun gleaming on her magnificent curves... 

Peering around, Rhiannon spied a familiar pith helmet bobbing above the bustling mob. With judicious use of elbows, the small woman forced her way across the path, ducking beneath arms, squeezing into spaces and leaving a trail of curses in her wake. Rhiannon stopped immediately behind Lina, who was standing stock still in the middle of the path. 

''Lina?,'' she asked, a huge smile lighting up her heart-shaped face. ''You won't believe the price I paid for that set...'' Her voice trailed off as the peer turned around. 

The taller woman's face was white to the lips. As Rhiannon's eyes widened in horror, she noticed a small dagger protruding from Lina's shoulder, a dark-red stain of blood blooming like a hot-house rose against the white fabric of her shirt. 

''Oh.'' Lina's voice was strained. ''There you are, my dear. I seem to have had an accident.'' 

Rhiannon caught Lina she collapsed, the larger woman's weight carrying them both to the dusty road. The carelessly wrapped package in Lina's hand burst open when it fell, elaborately embroidered slippers spilling out onto the dirt, their metallic threads glittering like precious gems beneath the bright Egyptian sun...

...no brighter than the blood that pooled in the yellowish sand. 

CHAPTER THREE

Rhiannon stood on the small terrace of their third floor room at Shepheard's, breathing deeply. Across the way, the famed Ezbekiah Garden was in full bloom with colorful mimosas, chrysanthemums and poinsettias; velvety masses of crimson, gold and white roses perfumed the air and created a landscape that might have been painted by an Old Master. 

It was like a dream, Rhiannon thought, then with a grimace amended that statement: No, it was a nightmare. 

Lina was in bed, resting. The doctor summoned to the hotel had removed the dagger and stitched the wound. Lina had returned to consciousness shortly after her collapse; it was she who had insisted that the police not be summoned. A sizable garnishee to the doctor, and another to the hotel manager, Mr. Buehler, had ensured their cooperation. 

Rhiannon shuddered when she recalled that horrible moment when she had been sure that Lina was dead. Although lasting only a split second, it had seemed like an eternity in Hell; a thousand wild notions had flooded through her shocked mind, first and foremost among them: How will I live without her?

But when she had seen that her beloved was still breathing, Rhiannon had snapped back to her senses, assuming an air of command that would have shocked those who were only mildly acquainted with her. She had organized a litter and commandeered a cadre of volunteers from the bystanders, even forcing one irate British gentleman to give up his coat in order to cover Lina as a preventative against shock from blood loss. 

When Lina had awakened from her brief swoon, she was being carried through the bazaars, en route to Shepheard's, with Rhiannon acting as a single-minded spearhead, clearing a path through the crowded streets with choice invective and, if necessary, brute force. 

Word spread quickly; after a miraculously short time, the press parted smoothly in front of the woman with eyes like the sky and a voice like a lioness, many of the fellahin convinced that Rhiannon was Sekhmet incarnate, and none wishing to confront the small but fierce avatar of the awesome Lady of war and love. 

Rhiannon turned away from the view of the gardens and went back into the room, passing through the sitting area and into the bedroom. Yards of foamy mosquito netting swathed the bed; behind it, she could just make out the figure of Lina, sitting up and smoking a cigarette. 

Sweeping aside the folds of netting, Rhiannon reached out, snatched the cigarette from an astonished Lina's lips and flicked it out the window, where it was pounced upon by a beggar, who thanked Allah loudly for his benevolence. Lina stared open-mouthed as Rhiannon put her hands on her hips and stared back defiantly. 

''Do you wish to set the entire hotel on fire?'' Rhiannon asked forcefully. ''If this confounded netting should catch from one of your nasty cigarettes, you'll be a cinder in moments.'' 

Lina chuckled wearily; her shoulder was throbbing and she'd refused the doctor's offer of laudanum. ''My dear, I have been to Egypt before and I am fully conversant with the incendiary properties of mosquito netting. Rest assured, I was, and shall continue to be, quite careful.'' 

Rhiannon's eyes flashed with fury. ''Nevertheless...,'' she began, but Lina interrupted her. 

''I suspect that my smoking in bed is not the true issue. Come here, my dear,'' Lina said, patting the bed beside her. ''Tell me what truly troubles you.'' 

Rhiannon sighed, anger draining from her face, replaced by concern. ''You still haven't told me what happened,'' she said, sinking down on the bed and taking Lina's hand with her own. ''Why were you stabbed? And in the middle of a crowded bazaar, no less.'' 

To her surprise, Lina gave her a sheepish look. ''Well, it most likely had something to do with this,'' the peer replied, pulling a much-folded note from beneath her pillow and handing it to Rhiannon. 

To her credit, Rhiannon unfolded the note with steady fingers and read with an air of perfect calm. Finishing, her eyes locked on Lina's and the dark-haired woman flinched at the condemnation there. ''I see.'' Rhiannon's tone was cool. ''This note reads, 'Beware of the Jackal - Or He shall devour thy heart beneath the midday sun.' It seems like a clear enough threat to me, Evangeline. When did you receive this?'' 

Lina gulped. ''This morning.'' Sudden fury blazed in Rhiannon's eyes and the peer hastened to explain. ''I did not even read it, my dear! It was on the stand with the washing water. We were going out, and I put it in my pocket and forgot about it until after that infernal doctor left. I was not keeping anything from you, I swear!'' 

Rhiannon considered, then to Lina's relief, nodded, clearly believing that the peer had not been sheltering her again. The tendency of Lina to shield Rhiannon was an old bone of contention between them, resulting in many arguments and many protests by Lina that she would do it no more. However, more than once the peer had broken those promises, much to Rhiannon's exasperation. The strawberry-blonde woman was determined that the next time Lina did such a thing, she would leave her. 

As much as I love her, Rhiannon thought, looking at Lina's stricken face, I cannot live smothered in good intentions. Either I am my own woman or none at all.

''All right, love,'' she said, patting Lina's hand. ''Do you know who this Jackal person is?'' 

''Not a clue.'' Lina smiled tentatively, then wider when Rhiannon returned that smile. ''I have no enemies in this part of the world that I am aware of. Upon my first reading, I decided that the party in question had merely mistaken the room, or that the safragi, having received his bribe, gave the note to us rather than the correct person.'' 

Rhiannon nodded. The safragi, even in Shepheard's, was like many native Egyptians - desperately poor and willing to take money from anyone for nearly any purpose. Those fellahin on the staff who were safragi, many of them Copts or Egyptian Christians, were hired to sit in the halls on each floor and attend to the needs of the guests. It was not unheard of for them to procure illegal substances, such as hashish or prostitutes for a fee, and to be distinctly uncaring of the antics their guests got up to. 

''And now?'' Rhiannon asked, since it was clear that Lina had rejected her original ideas. 

''Now I believe this note was meant for us.'' The dark-haired woman picked up the small dagger that the doctor had removed from her shoulder. ''See?'' she said, pointing to the pommel. 

Rhiannon took it and with narrowed eyes, examined the dagger. Although the blade itself was well honed steel, the hilt was gilt and liberally bejeweled with glass gems - she had seen similar knives, and many of better manufacture, in the souk, the great marketplace. But the pommel was carved obsidian, and, she realized, skillfully done. It was the stylized head of a jackal - symbol of Anubis, the Egyptian god of the dead. 

Rhiannon's eyes slowly lifted to meet Lina's own. The peer nodded in satisfaction. ''Yes, while a foolish man might mistake the room, or a safragi make an error, I could hardly be mistaken for another. Whoever this mysterious Jackal is, we can safely deduce that he means to do me some injury. I did not catch a good glimpse of my assailant in the crush - a particularly rude Bedouin fellow shoved me just as the assassin struck - but no doubt having failed to cause my demise, he shall try at least once more.'' 

While Lina leaned back on the pillows, beaming happily, Rhiannon was shocked. ''But why?'' she finally asked, nearly wailing. 

Lina shook her head. ''I do not know, my dear. However,'' she concluded, a happy smile still lighting up her features, ''I do intend to find out.'' 

''Oh, Lord!'' Rhiannon said, lifting her hands and eyes to Heaven, ''Another mystery! I'm not sure my heart can stand it!'' 

Lina's crow of delighted laughter was audible out in the hall, where the laboring safragi lifted his own eyes - and they burned with martyred frustration. His lips twisted as he bent to fill another water jar, his body taut and wiry, his expression guarded.

CHAPTER FOUR

Solange fussed with Rhiannon's hair, threading an ivory ribbon through the strawberry-blonde braids and curls that adorned the former secretary's head. Solange de Rocher, a native of Paris and part of Lina's unusual ''family'' of servants, was of medium height with blonde hair and eyes the color of anthracite. Those black eyes appraised Rhiannon in the mirror, taking in the details of her toilette. 

Rhiannon had dressed for dinner, wearing one of the gowns brought from England - a confection of ruffles and poufs in every subtle shade of off-white, from ivory to ecru to eggshell. The pale fabric set off her vivid coloring beautifully, making her hair seem the classic Titian shade and her pale eyes darkened to near sapphire. 

Lina would not be joining her; the peer claimed she was still feeling slightly weakened from her wound and had decided to have dinner brought up on a tray. Rhiannon had wanted to join her but Lina had insisted that she enjoy herself downstairs in the dining room. 

Rhiannon recalled her spouse's words. ''After all,'' Lina had said, ''while the social conventions of English society are still prevalent, there is a certain relaxation of the rules expected when one travels in foreign climes. What is unthinkable in England - a lady dining alone in a public place - is acceptable outside of Britain. Enjoy yourself, my dear. Do.'' 

Rhiannon made a face at herself in the mirror, picked up her small evening purse and rose, making a minute adjustment to the Vandyke of lace that cascaded down her bodice. ''Thank you, Solange. How is Fyvie?'' 

The French woman smiled. The enormous Irish wolfhound, once belonging to Rhiannon's Aunt Margaret, had joined them in Egypt, and was having the time of her life. Solange had been out walking Fyvie when Lina and Rhiannon had returned to the hotel. 

''She is in my room, Miss, eating a nice chine of beef,'' Solange replied. Her English was impeccable and spoken without  accent. ''The hotel cook was impressed by Fyvie's appreciation of his roulade of veal.'' 

Solange and Rhiannon chuckled; earlier that day, the hound had scented the delicious odors of cooking, and had dragged the maid through the hotel's kitchen. Fortunately, Solange had been able to placate the enraged cook by flattering and flirting with him shamelessly, with the result that Fyvie was now the apple of the cook's eye and would certainly gain weight during her stay. 

As will I, Solange thought, patting her belly appreciatively. 

Rhiannon sighed. ''Well, when Fyvie's finished, send her into the bedroom to keep Lina company. I'll try to hurry through dinner as quickly as I can. Please, Solange, if you need anything, or if Lina needs anything, send the safragi to fetch me.'' 

''Oui, Miss,'' Solange replied, black eyes twinkling. ''We will be fine, do not worry. Enjoy your dinner.'' 

Rhiannon left the room, still feeling slightly disappointed that Lina had not wanted her to stay. Indeed, it almost seems like she's rushing me away, Rhiannon thought. I wonder what's wrong?

She pondered on this all the way to the dining room, so lost in thought she failed to notice the burning gaze bestowed upon her by a man lurking in the shadows of a potted palm in a corner of the hall. 

The dining room was not crowded; Rhiannon was seated swiftly by the overly unctuous maitre'd and soon found herself perusing the menu with interest. She was so absorbed in deciding her dinner selection that she failed to notice the man seated across the table from her until she laid down the menu - and gasped with surprise. 

The gentleman put up a liver spotted hand. ''I do beg your pardon, my lady,'' he said gently, ''I did not mean to startle you. I noticed you were seated alone and took the liberty of asking the maitre d' to seat me at your table. I hope you do not take offense at my bold presumption.'' 

Rhiannon studied him for a moment. Old, wrinkled and possessing a beautifully groomed white beard that flowed to the center of his waistcoat. By his Oxford accent, he was clearly English; by his round-shouldered posture and pince nez, he was a scholar of some sort. Probably a school teacher on holiday, she concluded. 

''It's quite all right,'' Rhiannon replied politely. ''I would enjoy some company.'' 

The old man beamed. ''Allow me to take the further liberty of introducing myself. I am Doctor Stanford Burton, professor of Ancient History at Eton.'' 

He paused, clearly waiting, and Rhiannon hastily replied, ''Miss Rhiannon Moore, of London.'' 

Burton smiled again. Rhiannon noticed that his teeth were crooked and stained with tobacco. ''I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Moore,'' he said. ''May I ask, are you traveling alone?'' 

This question was asked with such an air of concern that Rhiannon chuckled. ''Not at all, Doctor. My patroness is Lady Evangeline St. Claire; I am accompanying her while she is on holiday in this country.'' Although Rhiannon hated to lie, she knew it was necessary to keep the true nature of her relationship with Lina hidden from casual strangers. This was the story they had agreed upon before leaving England; it was common for well-to-do ladies to engage a paid companion before traveling. 

''I see.'' Burton pursed his lips. ''And are you enjoying your visit?''

Rhiannon nodded. From there, Burton guided the conversation into various yawningly-polite topics, including the weather (''Abominable heat!''), politics (''A pox on all Liberals!'') and archaeology (''Cursed tomb robbers!'') and dominating it to the extent that Rhiannon could not get a word in edgewise. Their dinners were ordered and eaten, from soup to cheese and sweetmeats; with a start, Rhiannon realized that several hours had passed. The dining room was nearly empty and the Doctor was expounding on the nature of Darwinism and its impact on the economy. 

For the fourth time, Rhiannon stifled a yawn behind a concealing hand. ''I do beg your pardon, Doctor Burton, but I simply must return to my room. I'm sure my employer is wondering where I am.'' 

If she hoped to get rid of the vociferous old windbag, she was mistaken. Gallantly, Doctor Burton rose, tossing his napkin down on the table. ''I will be more than happy to escort you, Miss Moore,'' he announced. 

Rhiannon swallowed a groan. If she had to listen to another five minutes of Burton's oratory, she was sure her ears would fall off. Nevertheless, one must be polite... ''I would be most grateful,'' she replied with an internal wince. 

Burton offered his arm and escorted Rhiannon to the great staircase that led to the upper floors of the hotel. A small boy was standing at the foot of the stairs; spying Rhiannon, he hurried over. Thrusting a small bouquet of lavender, white roses and greenery at her, he said breathlessly, ''For the sitt!'' 

Rhiannon smiled and took the fragrant bundle. ''Thank you!'' she said, rummaging in her evening bag for a coin. The boy shook his head. ''No, sitt. I have already been paid.'' 

The boy hurried away and Burton frowned. ''Now, why the Devil didn't he stay to receive his tip?'' he asked in a tone of voice so different from his own that Rhiannon stared. 

Suddenly, the old man shouted, ''Watch out!'' and dashed the flowers out of Rhiannon's hand to the floor, stomping on them enthusiastically. 

Rhiannon backed away, sure that Professor Burton had gone quite mad.

CHAPTER FIVE

Burton's face was twisted into an expression of maniacal determination as he stamped away lustily. Finally, he stopped, then stooped over and began a minute examination of the wrecked bouquet. 

Rhiannon glanced around, hoping she could catch the eye of an hotel employee, when Burton straightened with a grunt. He was holding something pinched between thumb and forefinger. 

''A deadly present,'' he said, coming closer. 

With a shudder, Rhiannon realized he was holding some kind of insect. ''What is it?"

''A black desert scorpion. I saw the gaslight glinting off this fellow's carapace; he was lurking in your pretty flowers. One sting and you would have been dead by sunrise, I'm afraid.'' 

Rhiannon shuddered again. ''T-t-thank you,'' she stammered. ''I wonder how...'' 

Burton interrupted, speaking softly. ''It may have been a simple accident, but I think not. Observe; tied around the scorpion's abdomen is a bit of black thread. This arachnid was deliberately introduced into that bouquet, I believe, and it was apparently meant for you. Perhaps as an exceptionally cruel joke?'' 

Rhiannon squared her shoulders. Be brave!, she told herself. This example of the Jackal's work may be important! Pulling a cambric handkerchief from her evening bag, she asked, ''May I?'' 

The doctor deposited the remains of the scorpion in the handkerchief and Rhiannon thrust it back into her bag. ''Thank you again, Doctor Burton. I shall not forget your assistance.'' 

As Burton watched open mouthed, Rhiannon swept up the stairs without another word, determined to see Lina without further delay and quite forgetting her manners in her rush. The Doctor scratched his head and shrugged, turning away to disappear through the door of the hotel and into the star-speckled night. 

Upstairs, Rhiannon was struggling with the door, hands shaking so badly she had difficulty getting the key into the lock. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a familiar figure sauntering down the hall towards her.

She shook her head, and looked again. Yes, it was Lina! In her men's costume, her night-black hair concealed beneath a bowler, a pair of glittering spectacles perched on the end of her aristocratic nose. 

''Lina?'' Rhiannon said, frowning. ''I thought you were...'' Her voice trailed off when the figure started, half-turned as if seeking a means of escape, then slunk towards her. Lina's posture reminded Rhiannon of Fyvie when the hound had done something to earn her mistress' displeasure. 

''Er, good evening, my dear,'' Lina said, drawing nearer. Rhiannon took in the dust covered clothing that draped the peer's muscular form; it was clear that Lina had been outside in the street. 

Abruptly, a flood of anger took the place of Rhiannon's fright. The combination of the day's events - the excitement of shopping in the souk, the shock and horror of Lina's wounding, her own brush with near-death, the sudden horrible realization that the assassin was still active and knew of the two women's movements, and now Lina, once again breaking her promise - it was all too much. Rhiannon's mind went up in flames. 

Her normally sweet, heart-shaped face turned an ugly shade of red; when Rhiannon opened her mouth, however, her voice was icily calm. ''Where have you been?'' she asked in such a reasonable tone that Lina flinched. 

''Oh, well...,'' Lina vacillated. ''You see, my dear...'' 

Rhiannon held up an imperious hand. ''Wait.'' With regal dignity, she managed to get the key into the stubborn lock and opened the hotel room door. With another gesture, she motioned Lina to go in. 

The peer hesitated, then hastened in the room when Rhiannon's pale blue eyes locked on hers. There was sheer, bloody rage in that glare, and while Lina was brave, when it came to Rhiannon she would do anything to placate the woman she loved. 

The door was closed with exquisite care, then Rhiannon turned to face her errant spouse. ''Well?'' she asked, raising a brow. 

''I admit I am in error,'' Lina replied; in trying to run a hand through her hair, she knocked the bowler onto the floor. Her jet black hair, loosely pinned, tumbled down. ''Please, my dear, do not be too distraught. I assure you that...'' 

''You've been out again. Without. Me. Again.'' 

''Well, yes, if one must put it that way...'' 

Rhiannon's face was still brick-red. ''No. No more excuses. No more lies, half-truths or promises. This is it, Lina.'' 

Lina's face turned ashen. ''W-w-what do you mean?'' 

''I'm leaving.'' Rhiannon's eyes seemed to snap blue sparks. ''I told you, Lady St. Claire, that the next time you did this to me, I would leave. I will not be coddled like a brain-damaged child!'' Her hands were shaking. ''I WILL NOT! DO YOU HEAR ME?!'' 

Lina flinched back, mouth working, hands raised as if to ward off a blow. ''Please, my dear,'' she began, but Rhiannon cut her off. 

''You lied to me yet again and this is it. I'm through! I'm tired of you behaving as if I'm some... some... some goddamned bit of senseless baggage who has to be kept swaddled in cotton wool for her own good!'' 

Lina scrubbed her face with one trembling hand. ''No, wait!'' she said frantically, ''Please, my dear, if you would just listen...'' 

Rhiannon had one hand on the doorknob. ''No more excuses. I won't hear them anymore. Goodbye, Lina. I'll see if I can find another room for the night. In the morning I'm returning to England; I'll have someone come up and collect my trunk.'' 

Without another word, Rhiannon opened the door and stalked out of the room, Lina stumbling after. ''No... NO! Please, please, Rhiannon, reconsider...,'' Lina begged but the strawberry-blonde woman kept walking. 

Rhiannon felt as if her heart had broken, the shattered pieces shifting and grinding like broken glass in her chest. She loved Lina, wasn't sure if she could live without her, but this last time was the final straw. 

She was not a child but a woman, and could take care of herself; they'd had this argument many times before about Lina's overprotectiveness, and always she had forgiven the other woman. This time, her resolve was firmed. No matter how much it hurt, no matter how much she longed to do nothing more than run into Lina's arms and kiss her tears away, she could not stay - not and keep her dignity, her pride, her hard-won independence. Lina's suffering tore at her like knives but she ignored the pain and raised her chin, determined not to show weakness. 

Rhiannon kept walking, hot tears welling up and sliding down her cheeks, burning like acid, as Lina pleaded, ''NO! NO! Stay, love... please...'' 

Lina slid down the wall and collapsed on the floor, weeping madly, whispering, ''...please...'' over and over again, until Rhiannon's footsteps no longer echoed in the empty hall. Still crying, the peer crawled into the hotel room and the door slammed shut behind her. 

For a long time, there was only silence. 

CHAPTER SIX

Solange held Fyvie's red leather lead, pulled along briskly by the amber-eyed wolfhound. When they reached the door of the room, however, Fyvie's plumed tail stopped whisking back and forth. She whined, looking from Solange to the door with such confusion that the maid knew instantly something was wrong. 

She'd been gone far longer than she'd intended; while walking Fyvie, she'd encountered a very handsome young French gentleman and had been engaged in a flirtation that she'd enjoyed very much. Now, however, Solange no longer resembled the Parisian coquette; with a flick of her wrist, a razor-sharp dagger shot into her hand from the quick-release sheath strapped to her upper arm and concealed beneath the sleeve of her spotless shirtwaist. 

Solange bent and unfastened Fyvie's lead from her collar, knowing that if her two mistresses were in danger, the hound would prove to be another deadly weapon in a potential fight. Fyvie at her heels, growling softly, Solange tried the doorknob. It was unlocked. 

Drawing a breath, the maid eased the door open, dagger held professionally low. The gaslight was down and shadows danced on the walls as she walked into the small foyer, every sense keen and alert for the slightest movement. 

She heard a moan.

Moving swiftly but hugging the wall, Solange entered the sitting room - and stood still in shock. 

This afternoon, Lady Evangeline had been wounded, certainly, but she had seemed to be making a good recovery; in fact, she had felt so much better that she had gone to attend some business, which the maid knew about and had, in fact arranged. The peer had been certain she would return before Rhiannon's dinner was over. She had been happy, even smug. But now... 

Solange sucked in her breath. Lina had been drinking, and from the shattered remains of the bottles thrown against the furniture, she had been drinking quite a lot. 

Lina knelt on the floor, oblivious to the shards of glass that cut into her knees, a bottle of whiskey in her lap. She fumbled with the cork in the bottle, finally managing to draw it out, and the cork bounced on the floor as she lifted the bottle to her lips and took a long swallow, throat working as she gulped like a hardened drunkard. 

Solange's hand knocked the bottle away. ''What are you doing?'' she asked, black eyes wide with horror. ''You cannot do this!'' 

Lina growled. Her green eyes were bloodshot, hair a tangled mess, and it was obvious she had been crying. ''Give me that!'' she spat, hastily retrieving the bottle. Sloshing it around, she peered at the remains of the whiskey. ''You made me spill it!'' she accused with shrill fury. 

''Please, milady! You must not do this to yourself! What has happened? Where is Miss Rhiannon?'' Solange looked around frantically; there was no sign of her mistress' lover. ''What has happened? You must tell me!'' 

Lina took another long drink, shuddering as the molten whiskey traced a fiery path down to her belly. Wiping her lips with one hand, she replied, ''She's left me. She's gone. Gone, gone, GONE!'' Her voice rose into a shriek and the bottle flew across the room, shattering against the wall, a brown stain running down to sink into the carpet. 

Solange squatted down. ''Why?'' 

Lina shrugged then tried to stand up, swaying, only to fall heavily back down to the floor. With a snarl of rage, she batted away Solange's hands and managed to crawl over to the liquor cabinet that stood on one side of the room. The maid flinched as Lina's hands suffered cuts from the broken glass. 

Fyvie whined, capturing Solange's attention for a moment. ''Stay, Fyvie!'' she commanded the hound, unwilling to allow Rhiannon's beloved pet to negotiate the glass strewn room. Turning back to Lina, who had wrestled another bottle from the cabinet, Solange said forcefully, ''Lady Evangeline, I will not let you to do this to yourself!'' 

Ignoring her, Lina casually smashed the neck of the bottle against the cabinet door. She opened her mouth and poured most of the contents of the bottle in, dark brown whiskey sloshing out of the corners of her mouth, running down her chin, soaking her to the eyebrows. Solange hurried over and wrenched the bottle away from her. 

''Are you trying to kill yourself?'' Solange asked. ''You know what happened last time. Do you want Miss Rhiannon to see you this way?'' 

Lina was stricken. Burying her face in her hands, she began to cry with the desperate sobs of a heartbroken child. ''She's left me, Solange! Oh, God, she's gone!'' Lina looked up at the maid, her face grotesquely transfigured by grief. ''Rhiannon's gone...'' 

Solange squatted down again and put a hand on Lina's shoulder. ''Tell me what happened,'' she said with an air of undeniable command. 

Somehow, Lina managed to gasp out the entire story while Solange nodded and patted her shoulder. Finally, when Lina wailed, ''It was all my fault! All my fault!,'' and broke down into shuddering tears again, Solange stood up and adjusted her skirt. 

''Lady Evangeline, look at me.'' Lina did, tears still streaming down her face. Solange continued, ''We will work this out. But first, you must get washed up and I will put you to bed.'' 

''No! No, no, no! Oh God, I need another drink!'' Lina said, ''She hates me! And it was all my fault... I need another drink, Solange. Give me another drink, damn you! I need it... I need her, but she's gone and it's all I have left!'' 

Solange sighed. ''No. You've had more than enough. Listen to me, my friend. Yes,'' she continued when Lina shook her head violently, ''you are my friend as well as my employer, but tonight our roles are reversed. You will pick yourself up, you will compose yourself and you will go to bed. NOW! Or I swear before God, Lady Lina, I will leave you, too!'' 

At this threat, Lina dissolved into tears again. Solange managed to get her up and trundled her to the bedroom, where the still-weeping peer spent some time throwing up into a basin, with the maid supporting her and wiping her face with a damp cloth. That over, Lina tried to wheedle more whiskey from Solange but the Frenchwoman was deaf to her pleas. 

Finally, Lina lapsed into temper fit and Solange was spared serious injury only because alcohol consumption had made her mistress uncoordinated; as it was, Lina still managed to land a lucky blow. The maid winced, touching her bruised cheek, but waded back into the fray. 

Much later, Lina was safely ensconced in bed, her cuts bandaged, face washed and hair loosely braided; sleeping or unconscious, Solange wasn't sure which. 

The maid blew an errant blonde curl off her face. She was already mortally tired; dealing with an uncontrollably drunken mistress was something she thought she would never do again. Strange, she thought, how one never loses one's old skills, no matter how long it has been since they have been practiced.

Grimly, Solange looked at the mantle clock. Having dealt with Lady Evangeline, it was now time to go deal with Miss Rhiannon. 

She walked quietly out of the suite, shutting the door behind her. Fyvie was at her side; the enormous wolfhound was obviously confused and frightened. Before she went downstairs to pay a call on Mr. Buehler, the hotel manager, Solange knelt down and put her arms around the dog. ''Don't you worry either, mon petite,'' she murmured against Fyvie's ear, ''Solange will fix everything. You'll see.'' 

CHAPTER SEVEN

Rhiannon sat in her dark hotel room, staring into space. Mr. Buehler had been most accommodating; he had asked no questions, merely nodded and made arrangements for another room, seeing Rhiannon escorted there safely. Her trunks would be moved from Lina's room in the morning and she had nothing except her tiny purse, but at this point, Rhiannon didn't care that she was still wearing her evening gown, that her elaborate coiffure had come down into a tangled mess of ribbons and curls, that sleep would be elusive, if non-existent. She cared about nothing - she just sat and stared, her mind circling again and again back to Lina's whispered, tearful pleas. 

There were no more tears from her, however. Rhiannon's face was dry, although her pale-blue eyes were hazy and filmed with grief. She sat, surrounded by darkness and silence, shredding a bit of ivory ribbon she held in her lap. She refused even to look at her hands while they picked and unraveled; the phoenix ring given to her as a wedding gift by Lina still flashed on her left hand in the uncertain moonlight and Rhiannon knew that if she glanced at that reminder of happier days, she would dissolve into a fountain of salt and heartbreak and probably weep forever. 

She tried not to think about it, didn't want to dwell on it, but every time she closed her eyes, all Rhiannon could see was Lina's face, gray as yesterday's ashes... 

All she could hear over the beating of her heart was Lina's voice begging, pleading... 

Desperate, she cast her mind about, trying to think of something, anything, that would drive these specter's away, but instead, jumbled images of their life together would spin out of the recesses of her imagination, and each memory wrenched at her heart. 

A knock at the door made Rhiannon jump. Hand pressed to her rapidly beating heart, she rose and said, ''Who is it?'' 

''Solange.'' The maid's voice was muffled but it was unmistakably her's. 

Rhiannon sighed. For a moment, she had thought... ruthlessly, she forced that faint hope aside. She had made her decision and now must live with it, no matter how much it hurt. ''I'm not well, Solange,'' she called out. ''Perhaps you could return at another time.'' 

There was silence, then Solange replied, ''Fyvie is here, Miss Rhiannon. She wants you.'' 

Fyvie? Rhiannon suddenly, desperately wanted the comfort of her loyal wolfhound. Hurrying to the door, she unlocked it and flung it open. 

Solange stood there, a bruise darkening on one cheek. Fyvie, plumed tail wagging rapidly back and forth, leaped into the room with a woof, jumping up and planting her enormous paws on Rhiannon's shoulders, sharp muzzle questing against the woman's ear. 

Rhiannon staggered backwards; Fyvie was no lightweight. ''Down, Fyvie!'' she said, ''Down!'' 

The excited wolfhound obeyed but stayed close to Rhiannon, actually huddling in the skirts of her evening gown, tail still wagging, tongue lolling out of the side of her mouth in a doggie grin. 

Solange took the opportunity to enter the room herself and carefully closed the door behind her. ''We need to talk,'' she announced calmly. 

Rhiannon turned and went back into the sitting room, sinking back down into her chair. Fyvie lay down at her mistress' feet with a contented sigh. When Solange went to turn up the gaslights, Rhiannon murmured, ''No. Leave it. I prefer the dark.'' 

Solange turned up the gaslight anyway, leaving it low, then sat down on an ottoman and put her hands together in her lap. 

''I think...,'' she started to say, but was interrupted by Rhiannon, who blurted, ''Did Lina send you?'' 

Solange shook her head, not missing the disappointed look on Rhiannon's face. ''Miss Rhiannon,'' she said, ''Lady Lina is... not well.'' 

Rhiannon sat up straight. ''What do you mean?,'' she asked, eyes widening with worry and a hint of panic. 

''First, let me tell you a story,'' Solange replied, and began to unfold a tale that had Rhiannon riveted from the start... a tale which would explain much more of Lina's past than Rhiannon had ever imagined. 

Immediately following Lina's disastrous relationship with Sui Lee Choi - the madame who would re-appear to such devastating effect in the adventure Rhiannon privately called The Devil's Advocate - the peer had been summoned to Paris by the then prefect of police, Henri Maurier. Maurier had asked for Lina's help in cracking a particularly clever art forgery ring. 

''We know it is an inside job,'' Maurier had said, tugging on the small goatee that decorated his chin, ''But so far, all our efforts have been fruitless. Our informants have been of no use; we have raided several warehouses and condemned buildings, we have questioned every suspect, even all the Louvre Museum employees, but to no avail. My friend, Monsieur Holmes, tells me you are very good, mam'selle. Frankly,'' he had concluded, spreading his hands apart, ''since he is otherwise engaged, you are our last hope to catch these villains and see our national art treasures restored.'' 

The thieves were unconscionably clever; somehow, despite the tightened security, they substituted uncanny reproductions of Old Masters for the genuine article. It was often days or weeks before the substitution was uncovered; in one case, it had taken months before a sharp-eyed visitor had spotted a few tiny errors in one painting that had gone unnoticed by museum officials. The paintings were obviously being sold to private, discreet collectors; no fence would be foolish enough to think they could pass a famous artwork and receive no notice. 

Lina had taken the case. During the course of her investigation, she met a young Parisian artist - Victoire Rousseau - whose cool blonde beauty captured her heart for the first time. 

''She was very striking,'' Solange explained. ''Her eyes were lighter than yours, nearly colorless, and she was very beautiful. Lady Lina was quite besotted. Besides being attractive, Victoire was brilliant and a skilled artist. She had already made a name for herself among the Bohemians in the Montmartre district.'' 

Rhiannon felt a wave of jealousy that was nearly overwhelming. She forced it down, determined to listen, even feeling a slight sense of relief; to hear of Lina's previous love was painful in the extreme but she embraced the pain, let it wash over her, feeling it was nothing more than she deserved, welcoming it as just punishment for her separation from the woman she loved. 

Solange continued, ''They went everywhere together - the Latin Quarter, the Porte-Saint Martin theater to see Bernhardt - and yes, Miss Rhiannon, they were lovers. From the little I was able to gather later, it was Victoire who seduced Lady Lina. And it was Victoire who insisted on helping with the case - despite Lady Lina's protests - with results that were disastrous. But the Lady was in love; she could deny Victoire nothing, and she had no way of knowing what was really going on.'' 

CHAPTER EIGHT

"One night, Lady Lina went to a warehouse to wait for an informant who had promised to give her information that would lead to an arrest. Of course, Victoire went with her,'' Solange said. 

Rhiannon listened with every fiber of her being, sensing this part of the story would provide her with even more insight into the character of her beloved Lina. 

The two women had hidden themselves on the third floor of the warehouse, as instructed. But the informant never showed; instead, a fire broke out, accelerating quickly into an inferno that threatened to engulf the entire building in what seemed a matter of mere moments. 

While Lina searched for a way out, realizing they could not exit via the stairs, Victoire was nearly hysterical with panic. As flames consumed the floorboards beneath their feet, Lina finally managed to break out a window. Calling to Victoire, who was huddled against a wall on the opposite side of the room, Lina swore as smoke and fire swirled all around. 

''It was a scene out of Hell,'' Solange said. ''Lady Lina had already suffered a few minor burns but she would not leave without Victoire. Finally, she coaxed the artist to attempt to cross the room to her and Victoire began to move. But before she got halfway across, the floor collapsed beneath her...''

Lina dove forward, snagging Victoire's wrist as the shrieking woman disappeared through the gaping hole in the floor. The other two stories had already been engulfed in flames and the fire roared beneath Victoire's kicking feet. 

''No!'' Victoire screamed. ''Don't let go! Don't let go!'' 

''Never!'' Lina gritted, struggling to improve her grip on the other woman's wrist. ''Just... hold... on...'' 

Lina's shirt had begun to smolder and the wood she lay on was smoking hot. Blisters popped up on her breasts and belly but Lina refused to let go. ''Hold on, Vicky! Just hold on!'' 

''No!'' Victoire squealed. Her pale blonde hair, come loose from its braids, danced in the superheated air, and her colorless eyes were wide with terror. ''No! Evie! Help me!'' 

Lina drew a breath, the air scorching her lungs. Muscles popped and twisted in her arm as she tried to draw Victoire up, but the other woman was struggling, screaming, and Lina felt her death-grip on Victoire's wrist beginning to slip. 

Victoire's eyes widened even further. ''Evie! HELP ME! Oh, God, don't let me fall!'' 

Cords stood out in Lina's neck as she heaved with all her might, teeth clenched, every muscle in her body rigid. Victoire's screams of, ''Help me, Evie! Don't let me fall!'' echoed through her mind as she pulled with all her strength, desperately scrabbling for purchase with her other hand, trying to brace herself, determined to save her lover at all costs. 

Suddenly, Lina's grip on Victoire's sweaty wrist slipped until she was clutching only the other woman's fingers. Horrified, Lina held on and kept pulling, actually managing to draw Victoire up a little, but her uncertain grip slid again and now she held only fingertips. 

Victoire screamed shrilly, ''No! Evie! Don't let me fall! Help me, please! No! NO! Eeeeeeeeeevie!'' 

Lina's tentative grip finally slipped entirely and Victoire tumbled down, down into the leaping flames, shrieking, as Lina watched until her lover disappear into the inferno. Her mind began to crumble beneath an onslaught of guilt and rage and she trembled as Victoire's screams ceased. Then there was only the mocking voice of the fire that had left her hopes and dreams as dead as spent ash...

Solange stopped her narrative. 

Rhiannon stared at the maid. ''Wh... what happened after?'' she asked. She wanted to weep, her jealousy forgotten in a rush of empathy for Lina's loss, but controlled herself with an effort. 

''Somehow Lady Lina escaped the warehouse. I found her in her apartment, still wearing her filthy, smoke-stained and burned clothes. She was in shock, I think,'' Solange said simply. ''For nearly a week she said nothing, did nothing, she wouldn't even bathe, just sat in the apartment and stared at the wall. I was out of my mind with worry; I even went so far as to write to her mother, begging her to come to Paris and comfort her daughter, but Her Grace refused.'' 

Part of Rhiannon wanted to interrogate the maid about Lina's parents but she held her tongue. There were more important things to consider at the moment. ''And?'' she asked. 

Solange sighed. ''She began drinking, but it wasn't bad at first. I managed to get a few details out of her and went to the police department. Maurier gave me to understand that the fire had been deliberately set, but beyond that, he knew little. It was a mistake to give Lady Lina that information; looking back, I should have kept it to myself.'' 

''Why?'' 

''She was already feeling guilty about Victoire's death, although to be perfectly honest, I thought she had done all she could do. But of course, she blamed herself, and when I told her that the warehouse fire had been a trap... well, I think at that moment she went a little mad.'' 

''What do you mean?'' 

''She began to drink more and more heavily. We found out later that she considered Victoire's death entirely her fault; if she had not allowed her to go to the warehouse that night, then Victoire never would have died in such a terrible manner. Lady Lina is not very strong emotionally, Rhiannon - I found this out during those horrible weeks when she refused to eat and kept drinking more and more. She looked like a vision of death - her eyes were yellow, the weight seemed to fall off her even as I watched, her hair was falling out... I was afraid she was trying to drink herself to death. I even tried to deny her whisky, throwing it away when I found it, but she would bribe the landlady to bring her bottles of the vile stuff and concealed them throughout the apartment. I was frantic! I finally did the one thing I should have done in the beginning. I contacted Mr. Holmes. 

''Holmes was a godsend. It took nearly two weeks for him to settle his affairs in England, but the moment he arrived in Paris, I knew Lady Lina would be all right. 

''He took us to a private sanitarium outside of Provence and put her under the care of a doctor. Holmes and I stayed with her throughout the ordeal and it was not pretty, Miss Rhiannon. Lady Lina was hallucinating by this time, often violent and abusive; we had to keep her strapped down to the bed to keep her from hurting herself or anyone else. I truly believe she was on the verge of insanity and only Holmes presence kept her from going over the edge into complete madness. Do you know, she even tried seducing Holmes in an attempt to get him to bring her more drink? I wept to see it.'' 

Rhiannon gulped back tears. Lina's overprotective tendencies had always infuriated her but now she understood why. Her own guilt rose to the surface, mingled closely with frustration. ''Why didn't she tell me?'' she asked. ''If she had only told me how she felt...'' 

Solange shrugged. ''I do not know why, Miss Rhiannon. That is a question you will have to ask Lady Lina herself.'' 

Rhiannon swallowed further protests. She had to hear the rest. ''I'm sorry, Solange. Please, go ahead.'' 

''Holmes went to Paris after he felt Lady Lina was recovering. By the time he returned a fortnight later, he had much more information and was clearly unhappy. He told Lady Lina that Victoire had been definitely involved in the forgery scheme; in fact, it was her artistic talents that created the substitute works, and it was almost certain that she had been deliberately sent to spy on Lina and ensure that she never came too close to apprehending the gang.'' 

Rhiannon was horrified. ''But... why did they burn the warehouse if they knew Victoire was inside?'' 

''According to Holmes, it was an accident. The fire was supposed to have been set at a certain time but a clumsy confederate knocked a lit cigarette into the paraffin. They had no way of warning Victoire so they fled, leaving her to be burned alive. When Holmes told Lady Lina this, she didn't say a word. She just turned white and refused to speak or hear anything of the matter again. But it was the turning point in her recovery. After that, it was only a matter of days before she was ready to leave France and return to England.'' 

''I've seen Lina drink brandy and such, Solange. If she was such a hardened drunkard, shouldn't she abstain?'' 

''Oui. She should. But... I think she learned something during that nightmarish time. She rarely drinks whisky and when she does, it is heavily diluted with soda. I think she has calculated exactly how much she can drink before succumbing and never allows herself to go over that amount. Well,'' Solange continued shrugging, ''at least, hardly ever.'' 

Rhiannon's eyes narrowed. ''What do you mean?'' A sudden thought struck her. ''Oh, God!,'' she exclaimed. ''Is she... has she... is Lina all right?'' 

Solange replied matter-of-factly, ''When you left it was devastating, Miss Rhiannon. I told you, Lady Lina is not as strong as you think. When I returned from walking Fyvie, she had already been at the whiskey and had drunk quite a lot of it. I know she had more than a bottle.'' 

Tears trickled down Rhiannon's cheeks. ''Is she all right? Please, Solange, tell me!'' 

''She is in bed, sleeping. Other than a few cuts, she is fine, physically. Emotionally, mentally, I do not know. Of course, she will have a terrible head in the morning, but she was sick and threw up most of what she drank, thank God. Otherwise, she might have died of alcohol poisoning.'' 

Rhiannon stood. ''I... I... I have to go to her, Solange!'' She was crying now, from shock and guilt. ''I didn't know! Oh, if only she'd told me!'' 

Solange stood up also and put a comforting hand on Rhiannon's shoulder. ''Go to her, Miss Rhiannon. I know you love her and she loves you. Go and talk to her.'' 

Rhiannon hurried from the room, distractedly telling Fyvie to ''Stay!'' when the wolfhound would have followed. 

Solange watched her go, then went over and put her hand on Fyvie's head. ''Come along, mon petite,'' she said, ''Let us see if the bed in this room is as comfortable as the other." 

"No, no, cherie,'' she continued as Fyvie whined and scratched the closed door, ''your mistresses will need privacy for a time. Come, little one. We will sleep, and then we will eat, and we will see what tomorrow brings.'' 

CHAPTER NINE

Rhiannon stood outside the hotel room door, twisting the strings of her evening purse in her hands. She raised one hand as if to knock, hesitating. Finally, she turned the doorknob and stepped inside, closing the door behind her. 

Broken glass crunched underfoot as she walked through the sitting room. The air was heavy with the smell of whiskey and vomit. Gagging, Rhiannon hastily crossed to the window and threw it open, inhaling the cool night air with relief. Her eyes widened as she turned back to the room and took in the destruction; virtually every piece of furniture in the sitting room was in pieces, there were holes in the walls, the carpet was a wreck... 

The only thing left untouched was a small table. Crossing the room, Rhiannon realized that the package on top of the table must contain the jewelry she had purchased that afternoon. Her heart lurched painfully in her chest and she caught her breath with a gasp. 

Rhiannon raised a trembling hand to her hair, grimacing when she suddenly noticed the tangle of strawberry-blonde curls and braids that hung crazily from her head. Calmly, she removed the pins and ribbons that had held the ruined coiffure in place and finger-combed her hair until it looked nearly decent. 

Finishing, Rhiannon knew she could delay no longer. She went to the closed bedroom door and rapped softly. ''Lina?'' she asked tentatively. ''May I come in?'' 

Only silence greeted this effort. Taking a deep breath, Rhiannon opened the door and walked in slowly, allowing her eyes time to adjust to the dark. 

The bedroom was quiet except for the rasp of Lina's breathing. Rhiannon went over to the bed and pulled back the layers of mosquito netting. 

Lina lay there, her face drawn and pinched even in sleep, curled up around Rhiannon's pillow, clutching it closely. Rhiannon's heart gave another lurch when she saw the bandages wound around Lina's palms. 

Softly, gently, Rhiannon sat down on the edge of the bed, unwilling to disturb Lina's rest. She reached out one hand and laid it on Lina's forehead, wincing at the cold, greasy feel. The peer's luxurious black hair was tangled and oily; small beads of dirt could be seen in the creases of her neck. 

Rhiannon sighed. My poor love, she thought, her heart going out to the obviously distressed woman. What have I done to you? What have you done to yourself?

Throughout the night, while Lina slept fitfully, Rhiannon sat and thought... 

How can I live with her? How can I live without her? Rhiannon asked herself silently, looking down at Lina's pale face. 

When she had first met Lady Evangeline after her terrifying encounter with the madman who would become known as Jack the Ripper, Rhiannon had been frightened and unsure of herself or her place in the world. Her father's suicide had plunged her into a perpetual nightmare of prostitution and poverty; her future had seemed uncertain and bleak. 

But with Lina's entrance into her life - nothing had been the same. The beautiful peer had given Rhiannon a place in her household, friendship and security, and ultimately, her love. 

At first, Rhiannon had tended to cling to this rock of stability she had found against such odds. But soon, when she had begun to regain her old confidence, to stretch the wings she had considered clipped and bound by circumstance, Lina had responded to this display of independence by trying to bind her tighter, keep her safe and wrapped in a smothering blanket of protection. 

Rhiannon drew her brows together and stroked Lina's forehead. More than once she left me behind, she thought, while she worked on one of her cases. Not even having the courtesy to face me sometimes. Even after I confronted her, there were always excuses. Lina gave her word to me time and time again, and broke it as soon as she felt it was expedient. I had to leave; I'd given her the ultimatum not once, but a few times, and still she refused to believe... until now.

Lina mumbled, stirring; Rhiannon soothed her, stroking her love'rs face until Lina fell quieted. 

Although I understand why she feels the way she does, how do I make her understand that I resent it, truly resent it, when she runs off on one of her damnable missions and leaves me behind like a token bride? Rhiannon sighed and picked up one of Lina's bandaged hands, cradling it in her own. 

The ring she had given Lina flashed with subdued amethyst and pale blue topaz fire in the uncertain moonlight... and Rhiannon was reminded of her wedding vows. 

To have and to hold, from this day forward, in sickness and in health, as long as we both shall live...

Lina had accepted her vow joyfully and later gave Rhiannonvows of  her own. I love her, Rhiannon thought, and I cannot live without a place at her side; but I also cannot live knowing that at any moment, she may go off and leave me again... if she died on one of her  jaunts, how could I go on living?

Conflict stabbed at her. So which word do I break? My wedding vows or my promise to leave? How do I reconcile my feelings? Knowing that Lina might die if I leave her, how do I dare do so?

Rhiannon wasn't sure if she was entirely comfortable with the thought of being so necessary to someone else's survival. It seemed another binding, another cord to tie her to Lina... 

With a sudden flash of insight, Rhiannon drew her breath in a gasp and stared, eyes wide, as an idle thought silently voiced within the depths of her own mind returned in a haunting echo. 

How could I go on living?, she thought in amazement. How could I? Although I've said that I couldn't live without her, I believed it to be merely fine words, loving compliments meant to please and flatter. I never before studied the meaning behind that phrase...

Rhiannon stared down into Lina's face and an aching pit of loneliness opened up within her as she thought of a future without her beloved. She sensed the truth at last. I really could not live without her, she thought. If I lose her, I lose my world and everything in it. I lose myself.

Rhiannon rose and went to the window, ignoring the sharp twinges of pain in her legs from sitting too long. 

After a while, she sat back down on the edge of the bed and leaned over, gently kissing Lina's forehead. 

''Well, love,'' she said softly, ''I can't live without you, so I suppose I will have to live with you. I'll never, ever leave you again, Lina. I can't. Part of me died as well when I walked out that door, and I'm not sure I could survive another night like this. I can't bear to be parted from you...'' 

Silently, Rhiannon continued, But how do I convince you not to smother me with good intentions? How do I make you understand that my place is, and must be, at your side? I must think...

When the first pale shards of dawn began to creep through the window, Rhiannon had her answer. 

CHAPTER TEN

With a snort, Lina woke up, her eyes swiveling to and fro in confusion, blinking rapidly. She moaned as bright sunlight struck at her eyes like knives, and that small sound was enough to make her wince and put a hand to her head. 

Demons... she thought... I have demons tunneling with jagged spades through my brain.

Her mouth was as parched as a blazing desert and Lina moaned again, squeezing her eyes tightly shut against the far too brilliant light. 

Blindly, she reached out her hand and fumbled around the table for the water jar and glass she knew were there. A full glass of cool water was pushed into her hand and she gulped it thirstily, then lay back on the pillows with a sigh. Solange's voice was barely a whisper but it sliced through Lina's head like a buzzsaw. ''Madame is unwell?'' the maid asked. 

Lina cracked her eyelids open a hair and glared. ''Madame is quite unwell,'' she croaked. Running a shaky hand through her hair, she was mildly amazed when her head didn't fall off and roll about the floor. ''Go away, Solange. I will call you if I need you.'' 

''Very well. But you have a visitor waiting for you in the sitting room,'' Solange replied as she left the room. Before the door could close, Lina's harsh, ''Let them bloody well wait!'' floated out and Solange stifled an impertinent giggle. 

Alone, Lina lay in the bed, her hand absently going out to the other side, seeking Rhiannon, and finding nothing but cold emptiness. 

Tears welled up in her eyes but she blinked them back, putting up her other hand to press against her chest where a sudden pain throbbed behind her breastbone. My dear Rhiannon is gone, she thought numbly, it was not a nightmare, it was not a delusion. I have driven my love away.

Guilt lashed at her and Lina welcomed the pain, feeling it was nothing more than she deserved. 

Although Rhiannon had threatened to leave more than once, truthfully, Lina had not believed she actually would. Her own need for Rhiannon was so great that it had blinded her; she had actually believed that no matter what she did, no matter how badly she behaved, Rhiannon would always be there, a constant satellite to her own more spectacular orbit. 

But she has proved she does not need me as I need her, Lina thought, new tears sparkling in her emerald eyes. She is her own woman and I am just now acknowledging the truth of that fact. I have treated her very badly; I allowed my own fears to cause this breach. And it is entirely my fault.

Victoire's death had scarred Lina deeply; this she knew. And although she had, after her stay in the sanitarium, understood that what she had felt for the beautiful Frenchwoman had not been love, just infatuation, still... 

I caused Victoire's death, Lina thought. No one else was to blame in that, only me. And I desperately wanted to keep from repeating the same mistake. Rhiannon's love is everything to me and if I ever lost her...

But I already have.

The thought came unbidden and Lina began to weep, her body convulsed by silent, racking sobs. She cried with all the remorse and gut-wrenching guilt of the truly penitent. 

Turning her streaming eyes up to Heaven, Lina did something she had not done since she was a child. In the depths of her mind, Lina sent up a silent prayer to the God of her youth, begging for another chance, pleading that she be allowed to see Rhiannon just once more, vowing that she would put away her fears if only her love would return - but she no longer had a child's faith in a benevolent God, and Lina dared not hope, but also dared not to hope. 

''Lina?'' a soft voice said. 

It was a voice she thought she would never hear again; it blasted through her pain and heartbreak like a lightning bolt. 

''R-r-r-rhiannon?'' Lina whimpered, swallowing her tears and sitting bolt upright, much to the detriment of her head. Clutching her temples with one hand and swallowing sudden nausea, the peer struggled to push aside the folds of filmy netting. ''Rhiannon?'' 

''Yes, love,'' Rhiannon answered, hastening across the room. 

Lina flailed at the mosquito netting in desperation; Rhiannon quickly pushed it away and stood by the side of the bed, a small smile on her heart-shaped face. 

Lina's eyes were wide. ''Rhiannon?'' she repeated, staring at the woman she thought she had lost forever. ''Are... are you here?'' 

''I'm here, Lina, I'm right here,'' came the reply. 

Trembling on the knife edge between happiness and profound relief, Lina started to cry again. ''Oh, Rhiannon!'' she wailed, holding out shaking hands, wanting to touch the woman silhouetted against the sun, to hold her and know this was not a dream. 

Rhiannon sat down on the edge of the bed and enfolded Lina in her arms, nestling the peer's head in the crook of her shoulder, rocking her lover back and forth. ''Yes, yes, I'm here,'' she said soothingly as Lina clutched her and wept. ''I'm here, love.'' 

After a while, the flood of tears abated; Lina sat up a bit, touching Rhiannon's face in wonder. ''I have never before believed in the effectiveness of prayer,'' Lina whispered, ''but I now owe my family's clergyman an apology.'' 

Rhiannon was puzzled by this statement but decided to let it pass. She wiped the tears from Lina's wet face and smiled. ''How do you feel?'' she asked. 

Lina sighed and nestled her head against Rhiannon's shoulder again. ''I am well, my dear, now that you are here.'' A thought struck her and she sat up again, her eyes fearful. ''Are you staying?'' she asked, searching Rhiannon's face, prepared to beg, grovel if necessary, anything to keep this answered prayer from slipping away. 

''Yes. I'm not leaving you,'' Rhiannon replied, then had to deal with a fresh spate of tears from her overjoyed lover. 

After she'd gotten Lina calmed down and resting against the pillows again (although Lina still gripped her hand, unwilling to let it go), Rhiannon said seriously, ''Love, we have to talk.'' 

Lina's head was throbbing in time to her pulse, but she wanted to say something she was longing to speak aloud so she ignored the pain. ''My dear, there is something I must tell you. I realize now the true extent of my behavior towards you. I know I have said these words, or some such similar ones before, but I beg you to believe me this time, Rhiannon: I will never do anything to cause you distress again. You are my dear, my most precious love, and I do not want to lose you. If it comes to a choice between allowing you to make your own decisions and leading you into danger or losing you altogether... well, I can only say that I will never leave you behind again.'' 

Rhiannon nodded. There was a depth of sincerity in Lina's words that had not been there before when they'd had this old argument. 

Lina continued, ''You were perfectly justified...,'' but Rhiannon interrupted. 

''Yes, you're right. I was justified in my actions, Lina. You did break your word and I've warned you often enough about that. But,'' she continued, ''you kept important information from me, too. Had you told me about Victoire, I would have tried, at least, to be a little more understanding, a little more empathetic to your views.'' 

''Victoire? How did you hear about Victoire?'' Lina asked, surprised. 

Instead of answering, Rhiannon stood up and began struggling with the buttons of her white morning gown. She eventually managed to get enough buttons undone so that the dress slid off her shoulders into a puddle of soft cotton around her feet, followed by petticoats and all the other lacy underthings she wore beneath her gowns. At last, Rhiannon was covered only by the glory of her red-gold hair. ''Move over,'' she said shortly. 

Lina hastily complied. Rhiannon slid into the bed, turning over on her side to face the peer. ''Now come here,'' Rhiannon said; Lina snuggled into Rhiannon's embrace and they both sighed. For a while, the two women just held each other, comforted by the heartbeat that echoed their own; being together felt so right, the pain of separation was like losing half a soul. 

''Solange told me about Victoire,'' Rhiannon said at last, stroking Lina's hair. ''She told me everything, love. Everything except why you didn't tell me about it.'' 

Lina sniffled. Her voice was muffled against Rhiannon's throat when she replied, ''I did not want you to be hurt by it.'' 

''So you decided to protect me again, hm?'' Rhiannon sighed. ''Listen to me, Lina. I love you. I love you more than anything or anyone else on this earth and I want to share everything with you. When you keep these things from me, especially when you know it may cause trouble later on down the road, it hurts me more than if you'd have just told me in the first place.'' 

Lina was shocked. She pulled her face away from Rhiannon's throat and looked into the other woman's pale blue eyes. ''I... I never considered that,'' she whispered. ''Oh, God,'' she groaned, ''I have been a fool!'' Lina closed her eyes, slumping back, but Rhiannon pulled her close again. 

''Lina, if I'd known what happened... let's just say that now I understand why you're so protective. God knows if something like that had happened to me, I would certainly feel an instinctive need to protect those I loved. I'm not saying I'll condone it - I most certainly will not! And I take you at your word that you'll never do it again - but I do understand.'' 

Lina opened her eyes, those emerald orbs made more brilliant by unshed tears. ''Then you...,'' she began; her voice trailed off. She feared to voice her doubts lest they become all too true. 

''I will never leave you again,'' Rhiannon said solemnly. ''Never. No matter what happens, I will always be here, love, I promise. And I trust you to stop protecting me so much. But in return, you must promise me something as well. This time, you will keep your promise. Understand?'' 

Lina nodded mutely. The evening had been a nightmare from start to finish; from Rhiannon discovering her sneaking back into the hotel, to the drinking binge, to her blurred remembrances of fighting with Solange. Lina flushed guiltily. She had behaved very badly and knew it, but her fright had taught her a lesson. As Lina had told Rhiannon with words that came directly from her heart - she would never break her word again. 

Rhiannon continued, ''You must promise me that if anything - and I mean anything - ever happens to me, you will not take to drink or otherwise do yourself an injury. Do I have your word?'' 

''Yes,'' Lina whispered, surprised. That had been the last thing she expected. 

''Furthermore, I want you to stop drinking. No brandy, no whiskey, no after dinner port, nothing! Lina, I want to grow old with you and I have no intention of losing you to the demon rum. Promise me you'll never, ever touch another drink again.'' 

This was something altogether different. Part of Lina wanted to agree, to say anything to keep from losing her beloved again, but she knew that if she lied, this Heaven-sent second chance might not come again. ''I cannot promise that, my dear,'' she said, and closed her eyes, waiting for the blow. 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Again, to Lina's surprise, Rhiannon did not react in the expected manner. ''Well, can you at least promise me to try? Please, Lina. I only ask this out of concern; I don't want to lose you.'' 

Lina opened her eyes. ''I...,'' she began, then stopped. Rhiannon deserved to know the truth. 

''My dear,'' she said softly, ''Ever since that terrible time after... after Victoire's death,'' she managed to get out with an effort, ''I have craved drink. I do not mean that I occasionally wish to indulge; I mean that every day the bottle calls me with a siren's song that is difficult to resist. It is shameful, I know, as shameful as Holmes' cocaine habit, but there it is. I will probably have this craving for the rest of my life, but I have striven to keep it under control. When... when I thought I had lost you, the pain was so great that I tried to drown it, vanquish it with my old comforter.'' She stopped, unsure of what else to say. 

How could she explain? Each day of her life, Lina struggled with this personal demon. She would never stop wanting alcohol, she knew that. The indulgences - a glass of whiskey-and-soda, a snifter of brandy - served to keep the howling abyss at bay. She had enough formidable willpower to be able to stop; when she was in her ''moods'' she kept careful control over how much she consumed, although it was never enough - she always wanted more, and more, and more. 

Rhiannon made encouraging noises and Lina decided she would at least try. 

''I do not permit myself the luxury of drunkenness,'' Lina said with a slight shudder. ''You cannot possibly imagine, my dear, how awful that time was for me. I was barely human, a raving animal who would do anything for a drink. To my everlasting shame, I even attempted to subvert poor Holmes to my undeniable need. I was very nearly mad, and I thank God that Holmes and dear Solange stayed by me. Without them, I believe I would have died.'' 

Placing a bandaged hand against Rhiannon's face, Lina continued, ''Much like Holmes and his cocaine, I keep my cravings under strict control. But when you left... my dear, I wanted nothing more than to die. I sought oblivion in the closest source - the liquor cabinet. If Solange had not stopped me, I may very well have succeeded in willing my death. I cannot live without you.'' 

There, Lina thought. It is out. I have said it and there is no turning back.

Lina was ashamed of her neediness. She had always thought of herself as strong, capable, enduring. But there were particular cracks in her emotional armort and Rhiannon was one of them. Without her wife, Lina was lost. Rhiannon was a strong anchor that tied the peer to the world, a necessity without which she could not, and did not, want to live. Lina had feared to tell Rhiannon this, afraid that the other woman would feel trapped, ringed about by her selfish need. 

Rhiannon nodded. ''I know exactly how you feel, love,'' she replied. ''You are my drug of choice and if anything ever happened to you... well, first I would avenge you and then I would join you. I can't live without you, either.'' 

Both women were silent for a moment, then Rhiannon sighed. ''We will probably argue, we will most likely fight, but I'll never leave you again, Lina. Just keep reminding yourself that I am capable - you yourself have seen to that. You must stop coddling me, love! You keep telling me that you won't do it any more and when I turn around, you're doing it again. You know my feelings on the subject! And besides, I hate it when we quarrel.'' 

Lina squeezed Rhiannon tightly. ''Believe me, my dear, I despise arguments as well!,'' she said with a shiver. Having come so close to losing Rhiannon, Lina knew she would never, ever break her word again. ''I will do better, I swear. However, I will extract the same promise from you that you have from me: If anything should happen to me, you will not do yourself an injury. I would be incapable of action otherwise.'' 

''I promise,'' Rhiannon replied - and crossed her fingers behind her back. 

The indistinct murmurs of their voices continued on for a while, then silence fell as the two women fell asleep in one another's arms. 

The safragi removed his ear from the door, his eyes narrowing in thought. Shuffling down the hall, he stopped once to pluck a dead palm leaf from the potted plant in the corner, folding it up and thrusting it into the bosom of his robe. He grinned evilly - and continued on. 

CHAPTER TWELVE

Over a very late breakfast hastily concocted by the hotel cook at Solange's request, Rhiannon said with a forced air of brightness, ''So, Lina, where did you go last night?'' 

Lina's fork dropped on the plate with a clatter. She winced; her head was pounding, she felt nauseous and it seemed as if her mouth were filled with camel dung. ''Er... must we discuss the subject now, my dear? I am unwell.'' 

''If you mean you have a bloody great head, I believe it!'' Rhiannon retorted. ''If you're not going to eat those eggs, pass them over.'' 

With a shudder, Lina surrendered her plate, keeping her eyes averted from the spectacle of Rhiannon tucking in with a will. How she consumes so much food and remains so slender is a mystery to me, the peer thought, then gulped as a new wave of nausea made her stomach churn. While she and Rhiannon had been talking, her stomach had behaved; now it made its displeasure known emphatically. 

Solange appeared, holding a silver platter. On the tray was a glass of some evil red substance, thick and vile smelling. Lina's sensitive stomach flopped over when she caught a whiff. ''Good Lord!'' she exclaimed, clutching her temples as a spike of pain shot through her head. More quietly, Lina said, ''What the Devil is that foul stuff?'' 

''For your head, Lady Lina,'' Solange answered pertly. The maid was dressed in a simple dress of yellow Egyptian cotton with a beribboned bib of lace. ''My grandfather's secret recipe for indulgence.'' 

Lina shuddered again. Waving a hand, she said, ''Take it away, curse you! There is no possible way I could keep it down. And the smell is making my head worse.'' 

Rhiannon wiped her plate with a piece of roll. ''Does it work, Solange?'' she asked. 

''Oui. All my relatives swear by it.'' 

''Then you'll take it,'' Rhiannon said firmly to the aghast peer. ''I want to do some more shopping before we leave on our tour tomorrow, and I can't do that while you're moping around in the room. And we are going to discuss where you were and what you were doing last night.'' 

When Lina carefully shook her head in mute protest, Rhiannon continued, ''You'll drink it or I'll hold your nose and pour it into you.'' 

Lina stared. ''Surely you would not...'' 

''I would and I will if you don't drink it.'' Rhiannon popped the bit of roll into her mouth and chewed vigorously. Swallowing, she said, ''Just take your medicine like a good girl and I'll give you a treat.'' 

Lina said sullenly, ''What sort of treat?'' She peered at Rhiannon with suspicious green eyes. 

''There is something I neglected to give you last night. I want to rectify that error before we depart for the souk.'' Rhiannon's pale blue eyes twinkled. 

Lina's eyes widened. 

She snatched the glass from Solange's tray and downed it in a single gulp, ignoring the maid's snicker. Banging the empty glass down on the table, she gagged, clutching her belly. The hangover recipe had burned all the way down and tasted as terrible as it smelled. For a moment, it was debatable which would explode first - the peer's head or her stomach - and she struggled to retain control of both. After a few moments, however, the nausea subsided, and her headache began to fade. 

Lina sat up, tentatively touching her head. ''I do believe it is working, Solange,'' she said in wonder. ''If you were to patent this remarkable medicine, you would be a wealthy woman indeed.'' 

Solange smiled. ''With your permission, Lady Lina,'' she replied, ''I will be going out this morning to continue our arrangements.'' 

With a glance at Rhiannon, Lina nodded. ''Yes. Do that. Rhiannon and I will join you later.'' 

As Solange sauntered out of the room, Rhiannon looked at Lina sharply. ''Do these 'arrangements' have something to do with you sneaking out last night?'' 

''Er...yes, my dear,'' Lina said. She thought a moment, then continued, ''Our anniversary is coming soon. One of the reasons I wanted to come to Cairo - besides, of course, wanting to show you this incredible land of antiquity - was that I received word of an article which I believed would make a suitable present for you. That was the reason I was out last night - I was cementing some negotiations.'' 

Rhiannon stared. ''You mean... why didn't you just tell me what was going on?'' 

''Because it was a surprise, my dear. And...'' Her voice trailed off as she took a sip of tea, obviously stalling for time. 

''And?'' Rhiannon raised a brow and waited. 

''Well, I do not wish to give away too much, thus spoiling the surprise, but I will tell you that the object in question was most likely illegally obtained. My negotiations have required a certain amount of secrecy, and Solange's contacts in this area have proved invaluable.'' 

''I see.'' Rhiannon looked thoughtful. Solange's family had been involved in the smuggling business in France for more than two hundred years, and despite the fact that the maid no longer dabbled in the ''family business,'' she still retained much knowledge and knew many of the individuals engaged in the smuggling of European and Asian antiquities. 

''Lina, why didn't you just tell me this last night?'' Rhiannon asked. ''If you had, we could have avoided the entire mess.'' 

''Would you have listened?'' Lina retorted, then flushed. ''My dear, forgive me. My mood is still somewhat uncertain.'' 

''No... no, you're right,'' Rhiannon replied. ''Last night, I was so upset... you were hurt and then the Doctor found that scorpion...'' 

Lina suddenly leaned forward, swift as a striking snake. ''What scorpion?'' she asked intently. 

Now it was Rhiannon's turn to flush. ''Oh! Well, you see...,'' and Rhiannon explained her dinner companion, Dr. Stanford Burton, and his discovery of a deadly scorpion in the bouquet she received from a young boy. When she finished, Rhiannon stood and walked across the room, retrieving her evening purse. Opening it, she fished out the cambric handkerchief that held the dead scorpion and held it out for Lina's inspection. 

The peer took the handkerchief and peered at the remains of the arachnid as Rhiannon sat back down. ''Yes, he was correct,'' she said after a moment. ''If this creature had stung you in the face or neck - and considering women's propensity for sniffing bouquets, this event would be highly likely to occur - you would have been dead within a matter of moments.'' 

She laid the handkerchief down on the table. ''My dear, why did you not tell me of this last night?'' Lina was clearly upset, so Rhiannon hastened to explain. 

''Lina, how could I? There was so much happening! To be perfectly frank, I completely forgot about it.'' 

Lina leaned back in her chair. She was clad in a simple cotton robe, purchased in the souk, patterned with crimson dyed monkeys, palms and camels. Stretching her legs out in front of her, she said, ''I can certainly understand, my dear. However, now that we know this Jackal is nothing loathe to make both of us victims of murder, I suggest we take precautions. Before I left last night, I took the opportunity to question the safragi. I am satisfied that he knows nothing of the note.'' 

''Who can this Jackal be?'' Rhiannon asked. ''I don't understand why he would be after us.'' A thought struck her. ''Could it have to do with the present you're getting for me?'' 

Lina looked at Rhiannon, clearly impressed. ''My dear, the thought never crossed my mind! However, now that you have mentioned it, the possibility must be examined. We must also hold a council of war with an old friend, but I believe we shall find him close at hand.'' 

She rose, and held out one hand. ''That can wait. First, you and I have important business which requires our immediate attention.'' 

''What do you mean, 'close friend?''' Rhiannon asked, taking Lina's hand and rising. ''Who could that be?'' 

Lina gave her an enigmatic smile. ''I shall enlighten you later, my dear.'' She licked her lips and smiled wider. ''Now, what about the treat you promised me?'' 

''I have it right here on this table,'' Rhiannon replied, giggling at Lina's crestfallen expression. It was perfectly obvious that the ''treat'' Lina expected had nothing to do with gifts and everything to do with amour. 

She picked up the package that held the jewelry she had purchased the previous day in the Khan el Khaleel. ''Do you remember that necklace?'' Rhiannon asked. 

''Yes,'' Lina said warily. 

''Well, not only did I buy the necklace, but also a matching bracelet and earrings. I thought they'd look perfect on you... in a certain light.'' 

''Oh?'' Lina's headache was completely gone, her stomach behaving itself once more, and Rhiannon was back - nothing would ruin her good mood. ''Let me see this necklace and refresh my memory. Perhaps I could be persuaded to model it for you,'' she said playfully, taking the package from Rhiannon's hand. She struggled with the strings that were wrapped around the brown paper but they had been tied too tightly. 

''Curse those shopkeepers!'' Lina swore. ''They know only two methods of wrapping parcels. Either they use several yards of string accompanied by Gordian knots, or else everything is wrapped so loosely that one's goods are scattered from one end of the souk to the other! Excuse me, my dear. I believe I have a pair of scissors in the bath chamber.'' 

Lina walked away. Rhiannon waited... and waited... and waited... 

Wondering what was going on, she walked into their bedroom. Spying Lina standing in the door of the bath chamber, she said, ''What's taking so long, love?'' 

Lina hissed softly, ''Stay back!'' 

But Rhiannon had already come up behind her - close enough to see the swaying shadow on the wall.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"My dear,'' Lina whispered, ''Walk away slowly... and fetch my sidearm from the dresser drawer.'' 

Rhiannon carefully peered around Lina's arm. An enormous cobra swayed in the middle of the bathroom floor, its hood fully extended, dead eyes locked on the peer. Its forked tongue flickered and the snake hissed softly, head undulating back and forth. 

''Rhiannon,'' Lina breathed, not daring to move a muscle, ''get my sidearm. Now.'' 

But Rhiannon was reaching with agonizing slowness into the pocket of her wide-legged trousers, and pulled out her little pearl-handled revolver, a Christmas present from Sherlock Holmes. 

Sweat beading up on her forehead, mouth drawn into a frown of concentration, Rhiannon carefully and with infinite patience, inch by inch, extended her arm beneath Lina's, taking careful aim... simultaneously, her other hand rose to grip her lover's shoulder. 

Bang! Bang! The little pistol spat fire at the cobra and Rhiannon yanked Lina backwards with all her might at the same time, pulling her out of the room. Both women fell to the floor, Rhiannon beneath her heavier partner. The cobra writhed out of the bath chamber, flopping onto the carpet near Lina's feet. 

With a burst of hysterical strength, Rhiannon managed to shove Lina off herself. Leaping to her feet, she snatched the wooden staff that leaned against the wall and with an incoherent scream, began flailing at the serpent in a frenzy, beating it over and over again, her pale blue eyes burning with fury. 

''My dear,'' Lina drawled from her position on the floor as she watched Rhiannon's efforts, ''I do believe the creature is dead. Further attempts to subdue it will only result in an indelible stain on good master Buehler's carpeting.'' 

Panting, Rhiannon smacked the dead serpent a few more times and let the staff drop to the floor. The cobra was now an unidentifiable mass of bloody shreds and tiny splinters of bone. Then Rhiannon, face pale as milk, knelt on the floor, scrabbling weakly at Lina's bare feet. 

''I do not believe the serpent struck me, my dear,'' Lina said. It was clear from her tone that she was highly amused. ''Nevertheless, had he done so, you have already extracted a suitable revenge.'' 

Rhiannon raised blazing eyes and glared at the peer. ''Lina,'' she gasped, still trying to catch her breath, ''If you make one more witty remark, I'm going to strangle you myself!'' 

''But you did an excellent job, Rhiannon! I am impressed. I believe the cobra's death throes are what caused him to make an unauthorized entrance into our bedroom... not any lack of marksmanship on your part. I distinctly saw your bullets strike him in the head. You are to be commended; few experienced men could hit a target so small, and moving besides.'' 

Rhiannon sat back , calming a little, and wiped the sweat off her face. ''How do you suppose it got in here?'' 

Lina sat up with a frown. ''I suppose it could be a coincidence,'' she said. ''We are in a desert region; cobras and other beasties - such as scorpions - have been known to enter dwellings, chasing mice or seeking warmth.'' 

''However...,'' Rhiannon continued Lina's train of thought, her fright completely gone as her brain put connections together with lightning speed, ''In light of the two other attempts on our lives, I suppose a harmless coincidence is too much to ask for?'' 

''Precisely.'' Lina rose and offered her hand to Rhiannon, drawing the smaller woman up. Putting her arms around the strawberry blonde, Lina pulled her close and whispered, ''I have dispatched a note to our friend. He will be meeting us on the terrace for tea at four o'clock. And we must meet with Solange soon... but there is something I wish to give you without delay.'' 

Rhiannon tilted her head back so she could gaze into Lina's brilliant emerald green eyes. ''Yes?'' she asked with a small smile. Her heart had hammered in her chest when she'd thought the cobra had struck her beloved, but now it beat to a far different rhythm... 

The look of love and adoration in Lina's eyes was unmistakable. ''This...,'' she said softly,  bending her head and pressing her lips to Rhiannon's own. 

It was not a passionate kiss; it was an affirmation, a pledge of love, and Rhiannon put her arms around Lina's shoulders and returned that pledge with her own. For a long moment, they held one another, experiencing a timeless sense of belonging and comfort and trust. 

At last, Lina sighed. ''Come along, my dear,'' she murmured regretfully against Rhiannon's lips, ''I must get dressed. Solange will be waiting impatiently in the souk and Fyvie requires some attention as well.'' 

''Oh, all right,'' Rhiannon said with a twinkle in her eyes, touching her forefinger to Lina's mouth. ''I'll see to Fyvie; you get dressed. I'll send a note to the front desk and get them to clean up this horrid snake mess... ugh!'' She backed away and smoothed the front of her white shirtwaist, tucked into pale tan Turkish trousers. She had pulled her hair up from her face and twisted it into two braids that hung down her back, giving her a schoolgirlish air. 

Rhiannon walked from the bedroom, her lips still tingling from that wonderful kiss - leaving Lina to scramble in the wardrobe for her own trouser costume of dark Buffalo red. 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

In the antika district, the place of antiquities shops in the souk, Lina led Rhiannon to a dark doorway. A bit of old carpet had been tacked across the entrance, and unlike most of the other shops, this one boasted no mastaba in the front for customers. 

''This is the shop of Selim el Atti. Please, my dear, I would ask that you occupy yourself in the front of the shop while Solange and I conclude our negotiations in the rear with Selim. I only ask because this present is supposed to be a surprise.'' Lina's voice held a note of pleading. 

''Of course, love,'' Rhiannon answered, enormously pleased that Lina had considered her feelings. This is a good start, she thought to herself. ''I'll just poke about.'' 

They entered the room and saw Solange engaged in rapid banter with Selim. The language they spoke sounded Arabic to Rhiannon's ears, but in actuality, the two were discoursing in the siim issaagha, the specialized language of the gold and silver sellers of Cairo - similar to the thieves' cant of seventeenth century London. 

The conversation broke off as Lina and Rhiannon entered. ''Sabakhum bil-kheir, good morning, Selim,'' Lina said. ''Are your children well? How is your eldest son, Mustafa?'' 

Selim beamed. He was a man of medium height with dark, liquid eyes, and wore the indigo blue turban of an Egyptian Copt or Christian. ''Assalaam alaikum, Sitt Askeri, peace be unto you and may the One True God bless you. Mustafa is a lazy, ungrateful boy but he is still the pride of my old age,'' Selim answered in excellent English. ''And how are you?'' 

Lina returned the man's smile. ''I am well, I am well,'' she said. In a whispered aside to Rhiannon, she murmured, ''The Egyptians have a nickname for me. Sitt Askeri means Lady Warrior.'' 

Before Rhiannon could do more than nod at this information, Selim's gaze swung to her and he said, ''And you are well, Ibna'athyr?'' 

''What?'' Rhiannon's brows drew together in a frown and a heartbeat later, so did Lina's. 

''Why do you call her the Daughter of Sekhmet?'' Lina asked. 

''Because, sitt, yesterday in the marketplace, she defended you with the heart of a lioness protecting her cubs. The fellahin spoke of nothing else; it was the talk of the souk. They believe she is the avatar of the protector and the lady of war all in one, and are much awed.'' His eyes twinkled. ''Of course, as a Christian, I do not believe these things myself.'' 

''Of course not,'' Lina replied warily. She would have to talk to Rhiannon about this but it would have to wait. Solange came to stand with the two women. ''Now, Selim, how is your very aged and much honored mother?'' 

For what seemed an eternity, Lina and Selim engaged in the time-honored tradition of fahddling (gossiping) and exchanging compliments before any real business could be discussed. At last, Solange, Selim and Lina withdrew to the back of the shop, leaving Rhiannon to explore the crowded interior of the front alone. 

There were rickety shelves crammed with merchandise: pots; small bits of plaster torn from the walls of tombs that were painted with symbols and figures; scarabs and the burial figurines called shabwati; bones dark with tarry bitumen, some still bearing tattered wrappings. Rhiannon prowled around, poking, prodding, picking up this and examining that, until she pulled aside a rotting piece of cloth to reveal a small ivory box - and caught her breath. 

The box was so elaborately pierced and carved it resembled stiffened lace. Opening the yellowed top, Rhiannon saw that nestled within the interior was a pendant made of gold - an open eye whose pupil flashed with dark red carnelian. Turning the pendant over, she realized the carnelian backing was fashioned into the shape of a scarab beetle, and holding it close to her face, saw that the beetle's cunningly made carapace was covered with tiny symbols. 

She put the pendant back into the box and shut the lid. This was one item she intended to purchase herself. It would make an excellent anniversary present for her beloved; the open eye seemed so perfect, almost seeming to suggest: 'I see all, no secrets can be hidden from me.' It was infinitely appropriate for an investigator of Lina's caliber. 

Solange came out from the back room. ''Lady Lina is having the item wrapped now and will be bringing it to the hotel shortly, Miss Rhiannon. She asked me to escort you back to Shepherd's. There is still plenty of time before your appointment this afternoon.'' She giggled. ''Shall we go shopping?'' 

Rhiannon chuckled. ''Of course, I'd love to do more shopping. Only, I particularly wanted this box.'' 

Solange picked up the box and examined it with an expert eye, then opened it and took in the pendant. She whistled appreciatively. ''This must have just come in,'' she said. ''Ordinarily, an item of this workmanship would have already been on its way to a collector. You have a good eye, Miss Rhiannon. Excuse me a moment...'' Solange disappeared back into the rear of the shop, carrying the box with her. 

Rhiannon waited, and Solange came back in a few minutes. ''Taken care of,'' she said with a broad smile. ''Hah! I knew that old crocodile Selim hadn't seen the box yet, but he didn't dare admit it and didn't even open it! I persuaded him to throw it in as a bonus, which, considering the price Lady Lina paid for the st... the other thing,'' she continued, stumbling over her words a little, ''is a true bargain. For you, at any rate.'' 

The two women left the shop while Rhiannon puzzled over the meaning of Solange's near verbal misstep. What could her own anniversary present be? However, these speculations were overthrown by the sheer delight of shopping, with the French maid quick to point out the best merchandise and steering Rhiannon away from shoddy goods. 

Rhiannon took time making her selections, wanting everything to be perfect. A pretty mirror and comb set for the maid, Buttercup; a basket full of exotic spices (and a brightly dyed robe) for Cook; enormous half-moon swords for Bob and Henry, the footmen; a fez and a box of Turkish cigarettes for Jackson; an exotically embroidered smoking jacket for Holmes; and for her good friend Dr. Watson, a small piece of amethyst carved into the shape of a caduceus - the symbol of the Egyptian god of medicine, Thoth. 

Try as she might, Rhiannon could not persuade Solange to allow her to purchase her a present; but Rhiannon saw the maid lingering over a collection of glittering knives set out on a table under an awning. Asking Solange to get her a cup of lemonade from a nearby vendor, Rhiannon quickly located the knife the maid had been admiring. 

Not having time for lengthy negotiations, Rhiannon waved a fifty pound note beneath the Egyptian's nose and was gratified when the shop keeper grinned and tucked the money away beneath his robe, handing her the knife with a small bow. Rhiannon slid the knife into a package she was carrying just as Solange came back, holding a sweating cup. 

''You seem a little flushed, Miss Rhiannon,'' Solange said with concern as Rhiannon gulped the lemonade. ''Perhaps we should return to the hotel.'' 

Rhiannon nodded in agreement, glad the maid had not seen her newest purchase, and they set off to Shepheard's, pushing their way through the crowded marketplace. 

As they rounded a corner into an alleyway, however, Rhiannon was beset by a vague sense of unease. There was something wrong. It was too deserted... too quiet. 

A man stepped out of the shadows close to them. He was big and broad shouldered, with strings of greasy hair that tumbled from beneath the edge of his ill-wrapped turban. His robe was stained and spotted with food and palm wine. Pulling a curved knife from the folds of his blue and white striped djebellah, he grinned, revealing rotten teeth. 

Before Rhiannon could react, the packages Solange had been carrying hit the ground, sending up a tiny cloud of dust. The maid snapped her wrist down and the hilt of a knife smacked into her waiting palm from the hidden sheath strapped to her forearm. Swiftly gathering the folds of her skirt and tucking them up to free her legs, Solange's eyes never left their attacker's face. 

The man grinned even more hugely at the sight of this small European woman preparing to defy him. Confidently, he advanced, only to halt and shriek when Solange, in a blur of motion, sliced across his knuckles, then in the same motion, brought her knife around and down to cut deeply into his thigh. 

He stumbled backward a few steps, fingering his cuts. Then he spat, ''Qahbah!'' - ''Bitch!'' - and came forward at a run. 

Solange waited a moment then snapped her arm back and cast the knife in a smooth, overhand motion. The man stopped in his tracks, staring at the shivering hilt of the dagger that stood out from his chest. His dark eyes slowly slid up to lock on Solange's face. Mouth working, he toppled to the ground. The fight had lasted a bare minute. 

''Solange?'' Rhiannon quavered. She had been prepared to defend herself against the man's attack but the maid had taken care of the stranger before she'd even had a chance to drop her own burdens. And with such cold-blooded efficiency that she was aghast. ''Was... was killing him truly necessary?'' 

Solange ruffled out her skirts then squatted down beside the ruffian and began rifling through his robe with cool unconcern. ''Oui,'' she replied, ''Would you have rather been raped and murdered?'' 

''No! But... what I meant was, did you have to kill him? Couldn't we have just overpowered him or something and summoned the authorities?'' 

Solange sniffed. ''Perhaps,'' she admitted, ''but what of the next woman he decides to harm? Besides, the Egyptian police department is corrupt, like much of this country. Think of it as making the world safer for women everywhere, Miss Rhiannon. I'm sure he has done much in his life to merit punishment, if not in this world, then the next. Hmmm... what's this?'' 

Rhiannon stepped closer to examine the object Solange held out. It was a piece of jet black onyx in the shape of a stylized jackal's head. The man had worn it on a string around his neck. 

His mouth gaped open, unseeing eyes staring at the sky. With a sense of detachment, Rhiannon realized that Solange had already withdrawn her knife from his body; rusty stains on his robe showed that she'd cleaned the blade before replacing it. 

Solange left the corpse and picked up her packages, putting the onyx charm in a pocket. ''Come, Miss Rhiannon,'' she said softly. ''We will return to the hotel. You look unwell.'' 

''Yes,'' Rhiannon said, moving away and joining Solange. ''Lina must hear of this as soon as possible. I'm sure she'll be glad to know that the Jackal hasn't quite finished his game yet.'' 

The sun, like a copper coin, blazed blindingly on the dead man they left behind. 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

When Lina returned to the hotel, Rhiannon was waiting, putting the final touches on her hair. 

Lina bent down and kissed the back of her lover's smooth neck, commenting, ''You look as fresh and lovely as a flower, my dear.'' 

Rhiannon's pale-blue eyes stared back at her in the mirror. ''I do feel better,'' she replied, ''The bath was lovely. I've had one drawn for you; I thought you'd want to wash off some sweat and dust before we go to tea.'' 

Lina began pulling off her clothes, letting them fall to the floor. ''The heat can be brutal, I admit. But these costumes I had Solange acquire for us are much more suitable than ordinary ladies wear.'' 

She disappeared into the bathing chamber and her voice floated out hollowly, ''They were developed by an archaeologist - Miss Amelia Edwards. I understand she is something of a by-word in Cairo's archaeological society.'' 

''Lina,'' Rhiannon said, inserting a pin into her hair as the splashing of water and indistinct hums of contentment could be heard from the bath, ''Solange killed a man today.'' 

The sounds of splashing from the bathing chamber stopped. Lina's voice replied cautiously, ''Oh? Do tell, my dear.'' 

''He attacked us with a knife.'' 

''That was rather foolish of him.'' 

''He was working for the Jackal.'' 

''I see.'' 

''There was silence on both sides for a long moment, then Lina's voice came again: ''My dear, are you are quite all right?'' 

''Oh yes, love,'' Rhiannon replied somewhat sarcastically. ''I watch men get murdered in front of my eyes every day. In fact, I positively thrive on it.'' She put her shaking hands together in her lap and clenched them together tightly, closing her eyes against the incipient headache that threatened. 

She heard the sound of Lina leaving the tub then padding over to her. A wet hand squeezed her shoulder gently. ''My dear,'' Lina said with concern, ''Did he hurt you? If Solange was negligent...'' 

Rhiannon opened her eyes. ''Negligent?'' she answered with a near hysterical giggle. ''Hardly! Practically before I could draw a breath she cut him down with a knife. Who is she, Lina?'' 

Lina sighed. ''I am sorry you are upset, Rhiannon. Believe me, if Solange had not felt that you were in immediate danger, she would not have applied such direct means.'' 

Rhiannon turned around to face Lina, looking up at her. ''Who is she, Lina? Besides a smuggler, I mean. She killed that man without turning a hair! She seemed so unconcerned, so cold blooded. It frightened me.'' 

Running her hands through her dripping hair, Lina replied, ''There is someone who knows Solange's past more intimately than I. In fact, he is the person we are meeting for tea.'' She bent down to place a tender kiss on Rhiannon's lips. ''You need have no fear for your own safety where Solange is concerned. Trust me, my dear. Do you believe I would deliberately place you in harm's way?'' 

''No,'' Rhiannon replied softly. ''But really, Lina. I don't know why I'm so upset about this. I realize he might have hurt us, even killed us...'' 

''I believe it is because you have never deliberately taken a life yourself. If you had, you would understand that sometimes, direct action - without hesitation or regrets - is the only action one may take to preserve a dearer life.'' 

Rhiannon considered this. ''You're right. Although I came close to shooting Holmes when you were abducted by the Hellfire Club that time. And I know I fired into the crowd of acolytes, but whether I actually killed anyone - I don't know. I only know that you were in danger and I had to act. I would have killed everyone in that room if it had meant your life.'' 

''I have killed before, Rhiannon. But only because I had to, because there was no other recourse. Even so, I still bear their blood on my hands, I still carry the guilt. It is not an easy choice to make, my dear. Still... I pray you never have to make such a choice yourself.'' 

''I still don't think it was necessary for Solange to kill that man.'' 

''Wait until you learn more about her, my dear,'' Lina replied, going back into the bathing chamber for a towel. ''Then perhaps you can make a sounder judgment.'' 

Rhiannon sat down at the table on the famous terrace at Shepheard's, adjusting the skirts of her white cotton tea gown, the skirts and bodice sprinkled with tiny peach rosebuds and row after row of eyelet lace. The small cap sleeves were trimmed with more of the lace and a peach ribbon around her throat bore a small delicate cameo. Her strawberry-blonde hair was done up in a simple chignon, a pair of ivory combs holding the compact swirl of hair in place, and a corkscrew curl bobbed on either side of her face. 

Lina's gown was equally fetching. Also white but trimmed with swags of scarlet satin ribbon, with a matching satin sash wrapped around the waist and a row of tiny mother-of-pearl buttons that marched in a straight line from the rounded neckline all the way to the hem. Twin braids of ebony hair had been wrapped around her head in a coronet style and pretty pearl earrings dangled close to her neck. The sleeves of her dress were long enough to conceal the bandage that was wrapped around one upper arm. 

Picking up the menu, Lina said with a chuckle, ''Knowing your appetite, my dear, I suspect I should order the full assortment of sandwiches and the like for tea. Is there anything in particular you are hungry for?'' 

Rhiannon didn't answer; her eyes were busily taking in the panoply of exotica that marched past the terrace. 

Janissaries, bristling with weaponry, walked by in their uniforms, gorgeously embroidered with gold; pith-helmeted European travelers rode past on small donkeys, their feet trailing in the dust; native women in their robes, swathed to the eyebrows in black, only their hennaed hands and dark eyes on view; Arab men in djebellahs and turbans strutted; the unavoidable vendors of sweetmeats and oranges and goatskins of water who pleaded for custom; beggars in ragged robes crying piteously for alms; a few British officers swaggering in crimson dress uniforms and white gloves... 

Rhiannon tore her eyes away, breathless. A slight breeze made the palm trees sway and the curls that hung in front of her ears fluttered. ''Oh, Lina!'' she exclaimed. ''The view is wonderful!'' 

''Well, my dear, they say that if one sits long enough on Shepheard's terrace, one will see the world walk by.'' 

''And which part of the world have you seen this afternoon?'' came a familiar masculine voice. 

Rhiannon's head snapped around. It was Holmes! 

The saturnine detective flashed her a small grin and seated himself. ''I take it you ladies enjoy continued health?'' he asked. 

Lina put down the menu. ''Despite the machinations of a certain Jackal, yes,'' she replied. ''What have you been up to, Holmes, besides donning ridiculous costumes and flitting about Cairo saving hapless heroines from fates worse than death?'' 

Holmes grimaced. ''There is no fate worse than death, as you well know,'' he said, ignoring Lina's bantering tone. ''However, I am pleased that my small contributions to your continued existence have not gone unnoticed.'' 

Rhiannon was confused. ''Lina, what on earth are you talking about?'' 

''Do you remember the rude Janissary I told you about who shoved me aside in the souk, thus saving me from being stabbed in the heart by my unknown assassin? And Doctor Burton, the elderly professor whose timely intervention prevented you from a fatal scorpion's sting? Well,'' she continued, waving her hand at Holmes, ''observe the source! It was Holmes playing actor who saved us both.'' 

''Really?'' Rhiannon turned to Holmes. ''Why were you in disguise, Holmes?'' she asked. ''And how did you know we were in danger?'' 

Before Holmes could answer this question, a white clad waiter shimmered into view. Taking their order, the waiter vanished discreetly and Holmes looked at Rhiannon. ''Both of your questions may be answered quite simply, Miss Rhiannon,'' he replied, his tone grim. ''I know the identity of the Jackal.'' 

Lina and Rhiannon stared at one another in shock... then both pair of eyes turned back to the smug Sherlock Holmes.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"You... you know who the Jackal is?'' Lina finally managed to get out. ''Holmes, why did you not tell me?'' 

''I have been investigating a widespread criminal ring in England for quite some time,'' the detective replied. ''This ring has links all over the world, but these in turn lead to a single source. A man called Professor James Moriarty, a veritable Napoleon of crime. I believe it is he who is the mysterious Jackal.'' 

''I see,'' Lina murmured. ''You have spoken of this Moriarty to me before. How goes your investigation?'' 

''Not well, I am afraid,'' Holmes replied. The tea arrived and there was a pause while Rhiannon poured. 

Handing Holmes a cup, the strawberry-blonde asked, ''Why is this Professor Moriarty after us?'' 

It was Lina's turn to answer, for she had been thinking furiously. ''He knows Holmes is in Cairo - which is why our dear friend has been going about disguised. How he learned of the Jackal's plot against us is beyond me at the moment, but no doubt he will explain. As to why Moriarty has targeted us...it is obviously because of our connection to Holmes.'' 

''Precisely.'' Holmes sipped his tea. ''Lady Lina is a known associate of mine. I have been drawing closer and closer to the center of Moriarty's web and he knows it. Upon hearing from a close source that the professor intended to make an 'example' of the two of you, I hastened to Cairo. I could not reveal myself, even privately. I was sure that Moriarty has associates in this part of the world who would be watching for me, so I have been following you surreptitiously.'' 

''Why have you revealed yourself now?'' Rhiannon asked. 

''Last night, the man I knew to be Moriarty's chief associate in this part of the world - Habib ibn Daoud - was confronted by me. I had gathered enough evidence to convict him on innumerable counts of criminal activity, and I told him I would turn it over to the British authorities immediately if he did not turn his coat. Now that he is acting as my informant, I am confident that if any of his underlings should spot me, Moriarty will receive a false report.'' 

''Congratulations, Holmes!'' Lina said, biting in to a cucumber sandwich. After she swallowed, she continued, ''What are your further plans?'' 

''I will be returning to England shortly, now that the threat against you and Rhiannon has been neutralized. I doubt Habib will find the courage to attempt your lives again, even on Moriarty's orders.'' Holmes selected a bun and set about consuming it in neat, precise bites. 

Rhiannon reached for another slice of cake. ''We'll be leaving on our Cook's tour tomorrow morning,'' she said. ''An entire week on the Nile! I'm glad we won't have to be looking over our shoulders every five minutes.'' 

''So am I.'' Holmes finished his bun, gulped the remainder of his tea, and stood. ''Good afternoon, ladies,'' he said. ''I must take care of the arrangements for my return. Do enjoy your holiday.'' 

He started to walk away but was halted when Rhiannon exclaimed, ''Wait!'' 

Holmes turned around, one dark brow rising. ''Yes, Miss Rhiannon?'' he said. ''Have I neglected something of importance?'' 

''Holmes, I need to know something. It's important, at least to me.'' 

''Very well.'' Holmes sat back down and smiled. ''What can I tell you?'' 

''It's... it's about Solange,'' Rhiannon replied, giving Lina a beseeching glance. The peer, busily tucking into a smoked salmon roll, raised her eyebrows and shrugged. Taking a breath, Rhiannon continued softly, ''She killed a man today.'' 

''Oh?'' Holmes looked at Lina for confirmation. Receiving her nod, he asked, ''And this troubles you?'' 

''Yes. He attacked us and while I'm not above self defense, as you well know... actually, it wasn't so much what she did as the way she did it. So... so cold...it's hard to explain.'' 

''You fear she is a homicidal maniac, perhaps?'' Holmes seemed amused. ''Allow me to lay your fears to rest, Miss Rhiannon. You know of her family's smuggling background?'' 

Rhiannon nodded. 

''I knew her father, Jean-Claude, quite well. Solange was being trained in the family business but showed a remarkable natural talent for... other things. Things involving weaponry and murder; knives were and still are her 'tool' of choice. Jean-Claude apprenticed her, so to speak, to an assassin in Marseilles. A professional killer named Pierre Mort. An affectation, to be sure, but he was one of the best assassins in France.'' 

''Yes?'' Rhiannon was fascinated. 

''Hmph. She did very well in her new profession until she made the fatal mistake of taking on a job far beyond her skills.'' Holmes stopped and guffawed, much to Rhiannon's astonishment. 

''She tried to kill Holmes,'' Lina explained, emerald green eyes twinkling. ''Fortunately, I was with him when she crept into his Baker Street bedroom.'' 

''You were WHAT?'' Rhiannon blurted wildly. ''Lina, what on earth were you doing in Holmes bedroom?'' 

Lina chuckled. ''Not what you apparently think, my dear! Holmes had been injured slightly and I was keeping watch over him. At any rate, when Solange entered, I was able to defeat her easily. I suspected darker deeds were afoot, however, and so kept her tied up until Holmes awoke from his laudanum induced slumber.'' 

Now Holmes continued the thread. ''Once Lina explained to me what had happened, and after my interview with Solange, I spent a little time locating the person who had hired her. This led me, in turn, to another of Moriaty's schemes. Learning that the professor intended to kill Solange to failing, I hastened to Lina's house, where the girl had been kept. I believe Solange was seventeen years old, and had been a matriculated assassin for only two years; the child was still terribly naive, and quite upset at Moriarty's rage. She told me it was unprofessional!'' This seemed to tickle Holmes, and he let out a bray of laughter. 

''Moriarty was so furious at Solange's failure that he sent some of his minions after her,'' Lina said, continuing the story. ''There was quite a siege at Grosvenor Square, alarming my neighbors no end. Working together, we managed to beat off the attackers and Moriarty never tried again.'' 

Holmes poured himself another cup of tea. ''Yes, and when Jean-Claude found out that his precious youngest daughter had nearly gotten herself killed by the premier criminal mastermind in Europe, he was beside himself. I will never forget the way he scolded her for trying to cut the throat of a family friend!'' His shoulders shook with repressed laughter. 

Lina giggled. ''He insisted she join my staff by way of recompense for my trouble, since Holmes told him he had no real use for her and also no wish to cause a scandal by living with an attractive young lady who was not his wife! Solange has been with me for years and I regret nothing. She is an excellent ladies maid, you know... among other things.'' She waggled her brows and winked. 

Both Lina and Holmes burst out laughing while Rhiannon sat there, staring. Finally, when the howls died down, Rhiannon said, ''I don't know whether to laugh or cry! Lina, you really do consort with cut-throats, thieves and murderers, don't you?'' 

Wiping tears from her eyes with a napkin, Lina replied, ''Of course, my dear. Did I not warn you when I hired you a year ago as my secretary? In any case, I trust your questions about Solange have been answered.'' 

''In a manner of speaking, yes,'' Rhiannon replied. ''I just had no idea she could be so... well, she hardly looks the part of a vicious killer.'' 

''True. Solange can be quite protective, Rhiannon. But trust me when I tell you that she never, ever kills unless provoked. She is very good at what she does, my dear, and equally adept at assessing dangerous situations. She is a professional. If she killed that man today, it was because of some faint clue, one you could not detect, that told her he was not only a potential threat, but one which had to be eliminated immediately to keep you safe.'' 

''I see.'' Rhiannon considered this. Although she was still slightly troubled, she recognized the need to defend oneself and one's loved ones from those who would do them harm. She didn't fear Solange at all; and now she knew that the maid/assassin would not slaughter everyone in reach if they glanced at her cross-eyed. ''Well, Lina, I feel a little better. Not much, but a little.'' 

Lina patted her hand. ''I am sorry you were frightened, my dear,'' she said. ''Now... Since we have managed to consume all the tea things, shall we allow Holmes to go? Unless you have further questions.'' 

''Oh, no!'' Rhiannon exclaimed, ''I am sorry, Holmes! You had to leave and I...'' 

''It is quite all right, Miss Rhiannon,'' Holmes said with a smile. ''I have enjoyed enlightening you.'' He rose and with a slight bow said, ''Enjoy your holiday, ladies. A bientot!'' 

As he strode away, Lina watched him go, then turned to Rhiannon. ''Shall we go up and rest a bit before dinner?'' she said. ''We will be going to Mena House tonight, and I am sure you want to look your best.'' 

Rhiannon grinned wickedly. ''Are you sure that sleep is what you have in mind?,'' she asked. 

''Well,'' Lina replied, a grin of her own spreading across her beautiful face, ''perhaps I could be persuaded to do some jewel modeling...'' 

Rhiannon hastily gulped the rest of her cold tea. 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

In their bedroom,  golden late afternoon sunlight streamed through the carved mashrabiya screens that covered the windows, motes of dust glimmering and dancing in the warm air like minuscule flakes of diamonds and snow. 

Lina lay on the bed, naked save for the heavy gold leopard necklace around her throat, dangling earrings and a bangle weighing one wrist - Rhiannon's gifts. Her dark hair was down and the silky length spilled out onto the surface of the bed like a river of jet, sunlight striking highlights of ruby and garnet. Even the black curls between her thighs shimmered as she lazily posed, making sure she satisfied Rhiannon's request. 

Rhiannon stared. Lina seemed like an Egyptian goddess, all proud perfect curves and lines of such purity that she seemed unreal. Muscles shifted beneath her sun-touched skin as Lina rolled over and glanced back at Rhiannon over her shoulder, her expression serious. Rhiannon's mouth flooded with saliva and her head felt light, as if it were filled with air and fire. 

Lina rolled over again, this time sitting up, striking a pose with her back arched, head back, breasts thrown into prominence, the sun gilding her upstanding nipples. Rhiannon couldn't breathe... 

Abruptly, Lina abandoned her pose and stared at Rhiannon, shoulders slumped as if in defeat, her eyes wide and filled with such pain, fear and longing that the other woman was startled. 

''Lina?'' Rhiannon asked. ''What's wrong, love?'' 

Lina didn't answer. She just sat and looked at Rhiannon, emerald eyes filled with tears. 

Rhiannon hastily got up from her chair and went over to the bed. ''What is it?'' she asked, worried, putting her arms around Lina. ''What's wrong?'' 

Lina clutched Rhiannon, feeling her lover's smooth skin beneath her palms. ''I... I am afraid, my dear,'' she stammered, her words running into one another as she tried to explain this sudden change of mood. ''I am afraid this is all a dream, some hallucination, and I will wake up and find you gone again... I have been walking on eggshells, praying if it was a dream, that I never awaken... telling myself that I must behave normally, must keep my fear hidden, afraid you might vanish again and I would be lost...'' 

Rhiannon gathered Lina to her, pressing her nude body against Lina's. ''I'm here,'' she whispered into Lina's ear. ''I told you: I won't leave you again. I'm real, love. Feel me...'' She guided Lina's trembling hand to her breast, brushing the back of that hand against her nipple. ''See? Not a dream.'' 

Rhiannon had wondered why, after such an emotional outburst the previous night, her lover had been apparently unaffected by it. Now she knew the truth... Poor love, she thought, rubbing Lina's back with her other hand, she was terrified to tell me, too scared to show me she was still insecure, in case I might leave again.

Lina looked into Rhiannon's face with an expression of love mingled with fear and doubt. ''I do not know...,'' she said slowly, her eyes searching, ''I cannot know what is real anymore. Losing you was my worst nightmare come to life. Tell me,'' she continued fiercely, ''Tell me I am not dreaming. Tell me that this is real... or at least let me rest contented in the illusion, because otherwise, I am afraid I could not live.'' 

Rhiannon delicately traced the outline of Lina's ear with her tongue, making the other woman shudder. ''Did that feel real?'' she breathed. 

''Yessss,'' Lina hissed, closing her eyes. 

Rhiannon kissed her way along Lina's jawline until she reached her lips. ''Does this feel real?'' she murmured. 

''Yes,'' Lina whispered. 

Rhiannon kissed Lina gently, tenderly, allowing the other woman to feel her love, willing her lover to understand just how much she wanted her, needed her, loved her. 

When the kiss ended, Lina had begun to relax. ''I love you,'' Lina said, hugging Rhiannon tightly, her face buried against the other woman's shoulder. ''I love you...'' 

''I love you, too,'' Rhiannon replied. ''Don't be scared, love. Nothing will ever take me away from you again. Nothing. Believe that if you believe nothing else! Because I love you, Lady Evangeline St. Claire, and you are mine, and I am yours, and we will always, always be together.'' 

Lina looked into Rhiannon's eyes, so like a swatch of perfect, pale blue sky, and read the deep emotions that flooded to the surface: affection, tender regard, passion... 

But what she saw foremost was love - powerful, unrestrained, nothing held back or kept away, pure and trusting and infinitely giving... and the last of her doubts and insecurity vanished beneath that onslaught of realization: We are two souls in perfect accord, Lina thought. She is right; I am hers and she is mine, and nothing in this world or the next can keep us apart.

The dark haired woman kissed Rhiannon's face, her hands sliding up to bury themselves in that glorious mane of golden-red hair. ''No more fear,'' she murmured, ''No more doubt. Rhiannon Moore - We are love.'' 

Rhiannon sighed into Lina's mouth and pulled her down onto the bed. 

The two women lay side by side on the bed, facing one another, kissing. 

Lina traced her tongue along Rhiannon's collarbone, paying careful attention to the delicate dip in the hollow of her throat. Rhiannon squeezed Lina's broad shoulders and closed her eyes as her lover's wet, warm touch ignited a slow burn of desire. 

Rhiannon released Lina's shoulder and ran her hand over the other woman's arm, caressing the firm muscles, and then along one curved hip. Licking her lips as the tip of Lina's tongue wandered across her throat, Rhiannon ran her fingers across the dark curls between her lover's thighs. 

Lina sighed and shifted a little, raising one leg and bending the knee to allow Rhiannon access. Their mouths met in a kiss and Rhiannon gently explored Lina's mouth with her tongue as her fingers glided through the other woman's slick folds. 

Lina felt a shock of sensation burst within her as she felt Rhiannon's small fingers caressing, sliding... she moaned, head falling back, as Rhiannon found the core of her desire and began stroking the wet nub in tiny circles, at first slowly, then more firmly. She arched her back and hissed when Rhiannon's hot mouth closed over a nipple, scrubbing it with the flat of her tongue then flicking it rapidly back and forth. 

Rhiannon closed her eyes as Lina's hands slid through her hair, cupping her head gently. She nudged the other woman with her shoulder until Lina was on her back, legs spread apart, then without stopping her finger's motion, rolled until she was straddling one of Lina's thighs. 

Lina moaned again as the sensations that thrummed through her body became stronger and stronger and she felt the waves building, pleasure so intense it was closely akin to pain. 

Lina's hands reached up again and she blindly put them on Rhiannon's shoulders, kneading the firm flesh. Rhiannon released her lover's hard nipple and scooted forward a little so she could nibble and suck on her neck, rubbing Lina's core more firmly and faster as her hips started jerking back and forth, hands biting into the flesh of Rhiannon's shoulders.. 

The tickling rasp of Rhiannon's mound against her leg and the hot, slippery moisture that spoke of Rhiannon's own desire; the breast she could feel pressed against hers; the velvety wet tongue that was licking her ear; the stroking of her sensitive nub - all these things created a swirling universe of incredible sensations that swept Lina away. 

With a series of grunts and gasps, a desperately panting Lina was consumed by pleasure, convulsing and jerking against Rhiannon's hand as the powerful wave of pure sensation peaked again... and again... 

She tossed her head from side to side, every muscle trembling, incapable of anything save feeling the ripples of pleasure. Finally, however, the intensity eased slowly into tiny twitches and a breathless sense of fulfillment... she opened her eyes, breathing heavily, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on her body. 

Rhiannon took her hand away from Lina's mound, giving it a final pat. She kissed Lina's bottom lip, sucking it gently, then released it and said softly, ''I love you, Lina.'' 

Lina felt weak, boneless... she lay there a moment longer, catching her breath, then sat up, her back against the headboard. ''Come here,'' she said huskily, her arms open. 

Rhiannon shifted and knelt between Lina's thighs, pressing herself against her beloved. 'Yes?'' she asked with an arched brow. 

In answer, Lina kissed her, strong hands flat on Rhiannon's shoulder blades. Rhiannon's mouth opened and Lina's tongue slid in, wet warmth pushing past her teeth, sensuously filling her... 

She moaned and Lina broke off the kiss. ''Turn around,'' Lina whispered, running her tongue along Rhiannon's jaw. 

Rhiannon turned and sat down between Lina's outspread thighs, pulling her knees up to rest on the other woman's legs and leaning back, close to trembling, knowing the warmth she felt at her center was growing... wanting, needing release. 

Lina cupped Rhiannon's breasts with both hands, kneading the firm flesh, feeling the nipple stiffen into rock hard peaks. Rhiannon moaned as Lina grasped her erect nipples between thumbs and forefingers and gently pinched them, rolling them a little, sending hot sparks of pleasure rippling through Rhiannon's body. 

She arched her back, whispering, ''Oh, yes,'' as Lina freed one hand and pulled Rhiannon's hair aside, then began kissing and sucking the back of her neck and shoulders, her tongue flicking against the pale flesh. 

Still playing with one nipple, Lina smoothed Rhiannon's belly with her free hand, then slipped her fingers down inside the slippery wetness of her mound, delving deeply, sliding around the wet folds as Rhiannon squirmed, trying to spread her legs wider apart, finally putting both legs over Lina's so that she was fully open and exposed. 

Lina smiled into Rhiannon's neck and found the other woman's nub with her finger, then began rubbing it firmly back and forth. Rhiannon's eyes were closed tightly as the tingling in her center grew stronger, quickly turning into a burning wire of unadulterated pleasure that scorched every nerve to the bone... 

Lina kept her rhythm and gently bit the side of Rhiannon's neck, enjoying the feel of the other woman's sweat-slick body pushing her harder against the headboard as Rhiannon squealed and dug her heels into the bed, managing to spread herself even wider, hips twitching, hands gripping Lina's thighs so tightly they left marks. 

Panting, heart beating faster, Rhiannon screwed up her face and with a shuddering wail, ''Leeeeeeeeena!!!'' surrendered to the exquisite sensations and was carried up, up into a shattering moment of utter release, a flood of white-hot waves that left her shuddering and spasming, emitting little squeals and gasps of pleasure. 

Lina released Rhiannon's breast and put her arm around her waist, supporting her until the climax was finished and her lover lay limp against her, panting hard. 

Lina shifted Rhiannon over, carefully laying her on her side, then tucked herself against the other woman, smoothing red-blonde hair from her brow. Leaning up on one elbow, Lina said, ''I do so enjoy it when you call my name at such moments.'' 

Rhiannon giggled softly. She still felt as if she was glowing and was surprised that her internal light didn't rival the sunshine. ''Are you feeling smug?'' she asked, adjusting her position slightly so she could see Lina. 

''Quite.'' The look on Lina's face was one approaching smugness. ''I love the way you respond to my touch, my dear. It makes me feel, hmmm, inordinately proud.'' 

''Well, I love your touch, so we're even,'' Rhiannon replied. She reached around and pulled Lina's arm over her waist, snuggling back against her beloved. ''Of course, when you're grunting like a piglet, I feel smug, too.'' 

Lina nestled her chin in the crook of Rhiannon's shoulder. ''A piglet, eh?'' she said. ''I see I shall be forced to work on my repertoire of porcine imitations.'' 

Rhiannon giggled again... then there was quiet as they both dozed off, warmed by the sweet golden sunshine and by one another. 

In her own room, adjacent to her mistress', where the wolfhound Fyvie napped at the foot of her bed, Solange rolled her eyes at the wall and turned another page in her magazine, grateful there would be some peace and quiet for a while. 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Mena House. 

At the foot of the Gaza Plateau, the hotel had been designed to look like an English manor house on the outside, and was surrounded by lush gardens, but Oriental splendor reigned supreme within. In the dining room, high ceilings sported soft lights and the walls were decorated with antique mashrabiya screens. A sense of magic permeated Mena House, for beyond its walls could be seen the Great Pyramid of Cheops, the Sphinx and lesser pyramids. 

After a leisurely dinner, Lina coaxed Rhiannon to climb the slope beyond the gardens for her first close look at the Great Pyramid. The moon hung in the sky like a disk of beaten gold, flooding the sandy plateau with silvery light and shadow; as the two women picked their way across the rubble strewn plain, Rhiannon was glad that Lina had insisted they wear their trouser outfits and stout boots instead of normal dinner dress. 

Torches flared, brilliant sparks of light against the velvet black sky, and Rhiannon could see that others were climbing up the sides of the Great Pyramid, assisted by guides. Several native men approached Lina, who waved them away with a curtly polite, ''Alaihi wa salaam, the blessings of Allah be upon you, thank you, no, we are fine.'' 

They continued until they reached the blocks of stone surrounding the base, and then began to climb. Few of the stones were higher than three-and-a-half feet, so Lina was able to assist Rhiannon's ascent with ease. 

Upon reaching the top, Rhiannon realized that they stood upon a flat table some thirty feet square. The pyramidion and the upper courses of the monument had been removed and the view from so high up was spectacular. 

Barely remembering to breathe, Rhiannon looked to the east, to the Nile, the night-dark waters shimmering with points of diamond-bright light, a great swathe of moonlight spilling across the waves like white satin ribbon... silhouettes of palms stood against the sky, fan-like fronds waving lazily in a gentle river breeze. Beyond, she could barely make out the flickering lights of Cairo. 

Lina's arm around her shoulders startled her out of her reverie. ''Magnificent, is it not?'' the peer asked with a smile. 

''Yes,'' Rhiannon said, her eyes wide and wondering, ''It's just so... it's much more beautiful than I ever imagined it. Thank you, love,'' she added, turning her head and kissing Lina's hand where it rested on her shoulder. 

''In the morning, you will see even more wonderful sights. I cannot wait, my dear, to show you the temple of Karnak. It is on the Theban Plain, which is at the end of our journey. Although the deprivations of Europeans and the simple greed of the poor native population have reduced its splendor somewhat, the ruins are still quite breathtaking.'' 

''Lina, when were you in Egypt before?'' 

''When I was much younger, my dear. Like all debutantes entering upon a social season, my parents insisted on sending me on a Grand Tour. Paris, Rome, Athens... but I fell in love with Egypt when I came and stayed my steps until my poor mother despaired of my ever coming home.'' 

Rhiannon looked at Lina's face. The moonlight made the beautiful planes stand out starkly and her eyes gleamed, darkened by shadow from emerald into brilliant jet. ''Is your mother still alive?'' she asked, remembering Solange's story of the Duchess' refusal to aid her daughter when Lina lay in such desperate straits in Paris not too many years ago. 

''Yes,'' Lina sighed, ''and no doubt one day you will be forced to endure meeting her, my dear. But not tonight. Let me say only that my mother and I do not enjoy a close relationship ever since certain aspects of my life were thrust into her unwilling regard.'' 

Rhiannon nodded. She believed she knew what Lina was saying; that her mother had rejected her upon discovering her preference for her own sex. ''I'm sorry if I brought up a delicate subject, love,'' she said, wrapping her arm around Lina's waist and leaning into her. ''I didn't mean to upset you.'' 

''Oh, not at all,'' Lina replied, squeezing Rhiannon's shoulder, ''However, one's parental relationships, or lack of them, are not subjects I would consider suitable topics of conversation on a night such as this.'' 

Rhiannon asked no more questions; she merely sighed, leaned her head against her lover, and watched the moonlight turn the sands into gold. 

The next morning, Rhiannon puttered around the cabin, enormously excited. The Mirror of Hathor was one of the ubiquitous Cook's Tour steamers that plied their trade up and down the Nile, making frequent stops at areas of interest. Lina had booked them in the largest and best suite but it was still rather small, if elegantly appointed. 

A bed, just big enough for the two of the, swathed in filmy mosquito netting; a dresser and small built-in wardrobe; table and a pair of plushly upholstered chairs; and a little bathroom that Rhiannon found charming, even if the miniature tub was much too small to accommodate two. The walls were paneled in light woods and painted with murals in the ancient Egyptian style, portraying kings, queens, gods and temples in brilliant hues. 

Their steward, a mild-mannered young man named Hamid, had already filled clay jugs with fresh cool water and placed a pretty rosebud in the crystal vase on the table. Lina was seeing to the trunks they would be leaving behind, having already arranged for Solange, who would be staying at Shepheard's with Fyvie, to come aboard in order to arrange their wardrobe. 

Solange labored over an open trunk, laying out dresses on the bed, a small frown creasing her forehead. ''Which morning dresses will you be taking, Miss Rhiannon?'' she asked. 

''It doesn't matter to me!'' Rhiannon exclaimed, too delighted to be bothered with details. ''Just lay out whatever you wish, Solange! I feel far too giddy to make decisions today.'' 

Solange smiled and continued her sorting. Despite the fact she would be remaining behind, the maid had already begun to plan her own adventure. The hotel cook had a son, a very handsome son whose response to Solange's overtures had been very promising. The room Lina had engaged for her at Shepheard's would get quite a bit of use before she had to leave to meet her mistresses at Luxor. 

A sudden thought made Rhiannon's excitement ebb. ''Solange,'' she said, ''when that man... when you killed that man yesterday, why did you do it? Was is truly necessary?'' 

Solange was quiet for a moment, then answered, ''Oui. I cut him first as a warning, to give him every chance to change his mind. No one made him attack us, Miss Rhiannon, and it was his choice to continue the fight. I would have let him go if he had just walked away - but he didn't. People like that... it is best one does not give them too many chances. Turn your back and poof! They cut your throat. So,'' she continued with a shrug, ''I took care of him quickly. I am sorry you had to witness it. I know you were upset.'' 

''Lina told me you were once hired to kill Holmes. We spoke of it at tea yesterday.'' 

''That was when I was younger and more foolish.'' Solange did not seem troubled by Rhiannon's questions. ''My father was furious with me! I knew Monsieur Holmes was his friend but I thought the relationship was more casual than it actually was. Also, I was in a mood of defiance; I wanted to show my father that I could succeed on my own. I am glad Lady Lina did no more than break my arm that night. She could have killed me.'' 

''And that's why you stayed?'' 

Solange shrugged again, continuing her sorting. ''Oui, Miss Rhiannon. She had me helpless... she could have broken my neck if she wanted. I knew it and was resigned. You see, I knew I deserved death; every assassin is aware of the penalty for failure. But instead she helped me, even defended me against Moriarty's men when all she had to do was turn me out of the door. After that, even without my father's command, I would have stayed. We became friends... then more than friends.'' 

Rhiannon raised one brow. ''More than friends,'' she repeated delicately. 

Solange looked at her with ebony eyes that gleamed with amusement. ''It is not what you think, Miss Rhiannon. We have never been lovers; more like sisters. But after Paris, after Victoire's death... I think Lady Lina was so ashamed of the way she behaved that she cut me off. Oh, I do not mean to imply she treats me badly - on the contrary. But we are not as close as we once were, and that I regret.'' 

Solange said nothing else, merely finished unpacking the trunks and saw to their removal. Finally, she turned to Rhiannon. ''Have a wonderful trip, Miss Rhiannon. I know I will have a wonderful time staying!'' Her eyes sparkled with glee. 

''Thank you, Solange,'' Rhiannon replied, feeling infinitely more comfortable in the maid's presence. She knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that Solange could be trusted, and would fear her no longer. ''Take care of Fyvie for me, please. I'm sorry we couldn't bring her aboard, but she's far bigger than the usual lady's lap dog.'' 

Solange giggled. ''Oui. She is no Pekinese. Well, au revoir. Fyvie and I will meet you and Lady Lina in Luxor in one week.'' Withdrawing a flat package from her pocket, Solange continued, ''Here. This is for you and Lady Lina - an anniversary gift. All of the servants put together to buy it for you.'' 

Rhiannon accepted the package, hugginh the maid. ''Thank you very much. You're all so thoughtful! I'll tell Lina when she gets back; I'm sure she'll be thrilled.'' She released Solange and stepped back. ''Now, you'd better leave before the crew casts off. Take care, and we'll see you in a week.'' 

Rhiannon watched the pretty French woman depart, smiling at the whistles of appreciation that floated through the closing door as Solange stepped out on deck. I bet she won't be staying in Shepheard's alone, Rhiannon thought with a wicked chuckle. 

Then she turned and surveyed what would be her kingdom for the next week. Humming happily, Rhiannon sat down and began writing a postcard to the servants at Grosvenor Square.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

"Good morning, my dear!'' Lina said, ''I trust the accommodations are to your liking?'' 

''Oh, yes,'' Rhiannon replied, ''They're marvelous! When do we get underway?'' 

''Shortly, I believe. When I came up the gangplank the crew was already beginning to cast off the ropes. Shall we go up on the deck and see the sights?'' 

''Of course!'' Rhiannon replied. ''Just let me get my hat.'' The strawberry blonde woman was dressed in an off-white tea gown trimmed in loops of dark rose ribbon and embroidered vines of forest green. The bodice was outlined in lace and a single string of freshwater pearls around her neck was complemented by the pearl earrings Lina had worn at tea the previous day. A matching straw hat showered with dark roses and leaves was hastily pinned to her head and the two women left their cabin. 

Up on deck, they selected a small table near the rail and sat down, ordering mint tea and cakes from the smiling waiter. An awning extended overhead, protecting them from the sun, and a slight breeze floated off the river. Suddenly, with an ear-shattering blast of steam, the Mirror of Hathor jerked once, twice, then pulled away from the dock and began her journey down the Nile, engines chugging and rudder churning the blue-green waters into foam. 

Sipping her tea, Lina said, ''Tomorrow night is our anniversary, my dear.'' 

Rhiannon looked at her lover thoughtfully. Lina wore one of her trouser costumes, the sturdy cotton dyed the exact shade of tawny Spanish port and trimmed with colorful bands of Kashmiri embroidery on the cuffs and lapel of the jacket. The leather holster for her pistol had been left inside the cabin; instead, wound around her waist was a sash woven of gold, crimson and dark blue threads, the tasseled ends hanging nearly to her knees. 

With her ebony hair twisted into a single braid down her back, gold hoops dangling from her ears, and a small strip of sunburn across her nose, Rhiannon thought Lina looked like a corsair, one of the Barbary pirates of old who plied their lusty trade with abandon along the Mediterranean Coast. 

Seeing Lina's inquiring glance, Rhiannon flushed... lost in admiration, she had forgotten that Lina was waiting for her to hold up her side of the conversation. ''Our anniversary?'' Rhiannon said quickly, wetting her lips with her tea, ''Yes. I know. Did you have something special in mind?'' 

''Oh, not really,'' Lina answered casually. ''I thought perhaps a quiet dinner in our cabin or some such.'' 

Rhiannon swallowed a sudden sense of disappointment. She had been half-way expecting some enormously romantic gesture. ''Really? Nothing else?'' 

''Well, it has been an exciting past few days,'' Lina said with supreme unconcern. ''I thought you would enjoy the chance to rest and relax a bit. Tomorrow we will be at Beni Hassan; the Twelfth Dynasty tombs there are very grand.'' 

Rhiannon nodded, trying to hide her disappointment. Her attention was distracted by a man and woman who were crossing the deck near them. 

The woman, dressed in a glittering gown more becoming a ball than a breakfast, said in a nasal voice, not trying to lower her tone, ''...it's true, I tell you! Tribades, the pair of them! Dirty degenerates... why, I don't know what the world's coming to, when such sinful trash can be allowed to mingle with respectable people!'' The sneering glance the woman sent their way left no doubt in Rhiannon's mind that the 'dirty degenerates' the woman referred to were herself... and Lina. 

The man shot them an apologetic look over his shoulder as his companion led him firmly away... and Rhiannon caught her breath when she saw the expression on Lina's face. 

The peer was flushed with fury; her hands balled into fists. Lina rose, shoving her chair backwards, clearly intending to confront the woman, who was still talking, ''...knows what tricks they get up to in the night! Why, it's not a subject decent folk even think of, much less speak about! But I heard they were about their filthy business all over Cairo...'' 

The woman finally noticed Lina's rage, and her mouth closed with a click at the sheer menace that oozed from the taller woman's stance. Lina started across the deck, fuming, but was stopped by Rhiannon's desperate hold on the sleeve of her jacket. Turning around, Lina opened her mouth to say something but Rhiannon put a finger across her own lips. 

''Shhhh,'' she whispered. ''I know a better way.'' 

Lina's fury changed to astonishment as Rhiannon threw her arms around her neck and kissed her passionately, her wet tongue sliding between Lina's lips and her hands caressing the back of her neck in a way that left absolutely no doubt as to their relationship. Opening one eye, Lina saw the obnoxious woman, scarlet faced, dragging her companion away. She tore her lips from Rhiannon's and chuckled. ''Oh, my dear!'' Lina said. ''Brava!'' 

''Thank you,'' Rhiannon said, ''You just can't go around beating people up all the time, love. Especially malicious old biddies like that. I doubt she'll do more than send scathing glances our way from now on. At least, if she gossips, she'll be quieter about it.'' 

''Yes, I see your point. What made me angry is not so much what she said but that you might have been hurt by it.'' 

Rhiannon shrugged. ''I've been called much worse,'' she replied. ''Anyway, the opinions of strangers, especially dirty-minded strangers, don't mean a thing to me.'' 

Lina kissed Rhiannon's cheek. ''My dear, you are wiser than you know.'' She escorted her wife back to the table and saw her settled, then sat back down herself and picked up her cup of cooled tea, saluting Rhiannon with a toast. ''Here's to you, my dear... Slayer of Gossips and Valiant Protector of Tribades Everywhere!'' 

Rhiannon choked on her tea and Lina had to spend some time pounding her on the back before she regained her composure. 

Back in the cabin, Lina was napping, snoring softly until Rhiannon nudged her with an elbow and turned her over on her side. The snoring ceased and Rhiannon went back to the notes she was jotting down in the miniature notebook she always carried with her. Despite Lina's claims to the contrary, her naps frequently made up for the lack of sleep she got during the night... not all of it her lover's fault. 

A sudden shadow slipped across the transomed door, blocking the sunlight. Rhiannon blinked then slowly slid off the bed, one hand reaching for the reassuring presence of her staff. 

The staff had been made of  solid ebony and customized to fit her hand. As tall as she was, one end terminated in a rounded wooden knob inset with ivory and jade in the shape of two clasping hands. Rather than planed smooth, the shaft was minutely crosshatched to improve Rhiannon's grip, and it further harbored a deadly secret - by twisting a hidden catch in the center of the staff, a razor sharp steel point sprang out of the flat end, rather like a narrow spearhead. 

Rhiannon had never used that aspect of the staff before but she knew it only made her weapon that much more deadly. When the clever craftsman had suggested it, she had agreed. Now she was glad she had it; her pistol was out of reach, tucked in a dresser drawer, and if she had to use deadly force to repel an attacker, at least she wouldn't have to try barehanded. 

The doorknob twisted and Rhiannon set her legs apart, weight distributed evenly on the balls of her feet, staff held at the ready. Mentally, she thanked God that she was not encumbered by a dress but had changed into a loose, comfortable robe of pale blue silk. 

The door opened slowly, inch by inch, and a hand inserted itself within. A man's hand... 

Swallowing any sound, Rhiannon waited, heartbeat thundering in her ears, until the indistinct figure of a man, nothing but a black silhouette against the blazing copper sun, appeared in the almost opened doorway. 

Bring her staff up, Rhiannon struck the intruder solidly on the shoulder, then shifted her grip and jabbed him in the midsection. As he folded over, she flicked the staff out and hit him on the side of the head, knocking him to the floor of the cabin. A quick push and he was on his back, helpless. She sprang the hidden release and a spearpoint shot out, the sun glittering along its keen edges. Rhiannon put the point of the blade against the man's throat and squinted down, trying to identify him. 

His hands were splayed at his side, clearly showing he held no weapon, but he was a stranger to the strawberry blonde. His dark hair was slicked back from a high forehead and he had a stringy mustache and round pox-scarred face. His flared nostrils quivered as he tried to control his breathing, and through his slightly open mouth, Rhiannon glimpsed several missing teeth. 

Lina's hand touched her shoulder. ''What's this?'' the peer asked, rubbing her eyes. The moment Rhiannon had gotten out of bed, Lina had been awake, merely feigning sleep. Remembering her heartfelt vow not to smother her beloved Rhiannon ever again, she had stayed quiet and still, wanting to see how her wife handled the situation; however, she had kept a tight grip on the revolver beneath her pillow. 

The man began to chuckle; in a familiar voice, he said, ''Bravo, Miss Rhiannon! You have defeated me handily!'' 

Rhiannon stared. ''Holmes?'' 

Lina nodded. ''Yes, Holmes,'' she drawled. ''Do stop threatening to cut the man's throat, my dear. Blood is so difficult to get out of carpets, you know.'' 

Rhiannon thumbed the catch and the spearpoint sprang back into its hidden cavity. Moving aside, she said, ''Why didn't you just knock, Holmes? You could have gotten killed!'' 

''True,'' the detective said, sitting up. ''However, my purpose was two-fold. First, to test your defenses - and you, Lady Lina, will be glad to know I find them more than adequate - and secondly, to give you a necessary warning.'' 

''What do you mean, warning?'' Lina asked. 

Holmes sobered. ''Habib is dead,'' he said. ''And I fear you two are in the gravest of danger.'' 

CHAPTER TWENTY

"Habib is dead?'' Lina asked, hauling Holmes off the floor. ''How?'' 

''A more appropriate question would be, Who?'' the lean detective asked. He began stripping off his disreputable costume, removing the pads in his mouth that had rounded his face, as well as the horribly lifelike dentures. ''Habib was found murdered this morning in his home. This was found at the scene.'' He held out his hand and in the palm was another of the onyx jackal charms. ''I believe it is no longer safe for either of you to remain in Egypt. I must insist you return to England at once.'' 

Lina's eyes narrowed. ''You insist?'' she asked in a dangerous tone. ''I do not believe you are in a position to insist on anything of the sort, my dear Holmes.'' 

Holmes had begun scrubbing the theatrical makeup from his face with a towel; now he looked at Lina with something approaching anger in his normally phlegmatic face. ''I will not put up with any of your temperamental nonsense, Lina,'' he said, then continued scrubbing, his voice muffled, ''You will do as you have been told.'' 

Lina sucked in a breath. ''And who are you to presume to tell me what I must and must not do?'' she hissed. ''You overstep yourself, Holmes!'' 

Rhiannon stood and watched this with wide eyes, her staff still in her hand, relieved that Lina's revolver was safely in the dresser. 

Holmes finished with the towel and flung it to one side. His dark hair, sprinkled with silver at the temples, was standing up in spikes. ''Lady St. Claire,'' he said angrily, ''I respect and admire you as a friend and colleague, but I tell you that you are out of your depths! Now, GO HOME!'' he roared. 

Lina drew herself up to her full height, eyes glittering with rage. ''I will do no such thing! Holmes, you are not my father! And I am of an age and station where if I choose to ignore such presumptuous commands, I may do so! I will NOT go home!'' 

Holmes' hands were balled into fists and he took a step forward... then recollected himself. His hands relaxed at his sides and he drew a deep breath. ''Very well,'' he said, ''if you choose to put both yourself and Miss Rhiannon in danger, I will not stop you. However, you may consider yourself as strictly on your own, Lady St. Claire. I am returning to England in the morning. Good afternoon,'' he said curtly, then let himself out of the cabin. 

Rhiannon stared at Lina as the peer's red face slowly faded into its normal paler hues. ''Lina,'' she asked, appalled, ''what on earth has gotten into Holmes?''

''Typical male!'' Lina exclaimed, her face flushing again. ''Ready to share his mastery of the world so long as meek woman remains unmoving upon the pillar he has placed her! The arrogance of the man! Order me home, will he? As if I were some servant? Some meek and brainless fool? DAMN YOU, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!'' 

With that, Lina stormed away into the bathroom and slammed the door, leaving an astonished Rhiannon behind. 

The next morning, Lina seemed to have gotten over her fit of temper. ''More tea, my dear,'' the peer asked solicitously. 

Rhiannon shook her head. Lina had still been fuming when they'd gone to bed the night before and had refused to say anything more about Holmes. Rhiannon had deemed it best to drop the subject, hoping that when they returned to England, the breach between Lina and her mentor/friend could be healed somehow. 

''You seem terribly quiet this morning,'' Lina continued, glancing with concern at her silent partner. ''Are you unwell?'' 

''No, Lina, I'm fine.'' Rhiannon patted her lips with the napkin and rose. ''When are we going to see the tombs at Beni Hassan?'' 

''As soon as you are ready, my dear,'' Lina replied. ''You had best bring a parasol; the sun will wreak havoc on your complexion. Out in the open desert, man must bring his own shade.'' 

The Mirror of Hathor had docked at Beni Hassan - a typical Egyptian village of the poorest sort, where the people lived just on the edge of survival. The disembarking passengers were swarmed by villagers asking for baksheesh or offering fragments of mummies or manufactured antiquities for sale. Lina guided Rhiannon away from the crowd and they set off for the famous tombs. 

Some years previously, the tombs at Beni Hassan had been magnificent. Now, however, the walls with their stunning paintings had been mutilated by natives chopping out fragments to sell to antiquities dealers, and by unthinking tourists who carried bits away as souvenirs. The hieroglyphics and paintings that were left had been dulled by smoke from the candles carried by guides. Nevertheless, Rhiannon was enthralled. 

''I feel as if I'm standing in history,'' the strawberry blonde said, carefully examining a section of wall where a pretty painting of an ibis could still be seen. ''This place has been here for so long... one can almost feel the passage of centuries, yet it remains untouched, aloof from time...'' 

''Poetically put, my dear, but unfortunately, these tombs and others like them are not untouched by the ravages of man.'' Lina's lips were thin. ''When I see how my fellow man has treated such monuments of history, I am almost inspired to renounce my membership in their greedy, soulless clan.'' 

''Not entirely soulless, Lina,'' Rhiannon chided. ''Man created these tombs, you know.'' 

''True.'' Lina sighed. ''Come, my dear... allow me to show you what is left of the cartouche of the chief of this district in the Twelfth Dynasty...'' 

They returned to the boat early in the afternoon, when the sun's heat beat down from overhead, creating shimmering waves over the sands. After a refreshing lunch of cool salads and sandwiches and icy lemonade, Lina and Rhiannon retired to their cabin for a much needed nap. But as soon as she was sure that Rhiannon had fallen into a deep sleep, Lina crept out of the cabin... alone. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

When Rhiannon woke, it was dark outside. The sun had sunk far below the western horizon to continue its journey in the Land of the Dead, and the moon had risen high, a horned disk of silver such as a priestess of Isis might have worn in the days before the might of the Egyptian Empire waned. 

Rhiannon rubbed her eyes and sat up. ''Lina?'' she said. 

There was no answer. Getting out of bed, Rhiannon turned on the light and saw a folded letter laid prominently on the little table where she and Lina had shared their breakfast that morning. 

The note read: 

My dear: When you read this, I will be gone. However, before you accuse me of dastardly deeds, know that the mission I have departed upon is one dealing with a subject very close to my heart - namely, yourself. I cannot give you details, but ask that you wait until nine o'clock tonight. At that time, go out on deck, where you will be met by one of the crewmen, Abduhl. Ask him no questions, my dear. Everything has been arranged. With all my love, I remain forever your beloved - Lina.

Rhiannon was torn between fury, frustration and curiosity. What the Devil is going on? she asked herself. I thought she wanted a quiet dinner in our cabin - now she's gone off God only knows where!

''You had better have a very good excuse, Lady Evangeline St. Claire,'' Rhiannon muttered, glancing at the clock. It was eight-thirty. ''A very good excuse indeed.'' 

Abduhl was young, slim as a reed, and possessed the thickest, darkest eyelashes Rhiannon had ever seen. The crewman politely escorted Rhiannon to a waiting boat and rowed her across the shore. Ignoring Lina's injunctions, Rhiannon questioned him but to no avail. He merely shrugged apologetically. Either he knew no English or was pretending not to understand. 

Upon reaching the shore, Abduhl placed another note in Rhiannon's hand. To her astonishment, he clambered nimbly back into the boat and rowed away to the Mirror. 

Fortunately, the moon cast more than enough light to read by. 

''My dear," Rhiannon read aloud, ''Follow the North Star. Your journey will not be long and I have provided a place for you to stay your steps and rest awhile. Yours always, Lina.'' 

Doggedly, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders, Rhiannon trudged across the sands, guided by the most brilliant star in the firmament. Finally, cresting a dune, she stopped and stood stock still. 

A large tent had been pitched in the wilderness of the desert. Dyed a ruddy crimson and lit from within, it seemed to bloom and glow with light like a ruby petaled flower. The wind blew gently, making the gold tasseled flaps of the entrance shiver and dance. 

A brazier was set up in front of the tent, large pieces of flaming wood sending a spiraling swirl of sparks up to leap and dance on the wind. Eyes wide with wonder, Rhiannon ducked beneath the flaps of the tent and went inside. 

Antique Persian carpets covered the floor, one overlapping the other in a luxurious cascade. In the four corners of the tent, lamps of pierced brass cast a golden glow, and plush pillows and low tables were scattered throughout. Domed salvers sat on some of the tables; lifting one, Rhiannon saw fresh fruit packed in shaved ice. 

Behind curtains of sheer netting stood a bed of carved cedar, piled with feather mattresses and covered with lengths of green, purple and crimson silk. Pulling aside one of the curtains, Rhiannon realized that not all of the coverings were bedclothes; a costume lay across the foot of the bed. 

Picking it up, Rhiannon saw that the clothing consisted of a pair of sheer, midnight blue silk trousers with incredibly wide legs, spangled with diamante; a short, sleeveless vest of gold set with tiny chips of sapphire glass and trimmed in navy braid and fringe; and a misty, dark blue veil spotted with flecks of gold. 

Bemused, Rhiannon removed her trouser suit and put on the fanciful costume, taking her hair down as well. The trousers were like wisps of air around her legs and the brief top exposed her firm midriff. The veil was fastened to the sides of her hair with a pair of gold pins that were topped by cabochon sapphires. 

Walking back through the net curtain on bare feet, Rhiannon heard a sound... the thundering of hoofbeats that seemed to echo like thunder in the still night. She went to the entrance of the tent and stood waiting, heart pounding a matching tattoo. 

A magnificent white horse reared over the crest of a dune, the rider silhouetted against the moon. With a masterful touch, the rider guided the horse down the slope and brought it to a shivering standstill beside the brazier. 

Rhiannon's eyes were wide and searching. The rider was dressed as a Bedouin with dark blue robes, a turban and veil. But looking back at her over that concealing veil was a pair of familiar eyes... green as emeralds... filled with love. 

As Lina dismounted, music filled the night... the beat of a drum, the wailing of a recorder, the chiming of the daff or tambourine. The musicians were hidden behind a dune at some little distance from the tent, but in the clear desert air, their pulsating rhythm carried clearly. 

Lina walked to the tent and stood for a long moment, looking down at Rhiannon. The costume she had placed on the bed suited her wife admirably, and Lina's eyes widened when she noticed that beneath the yards of filmy silk, Rhiannon was completely nude. 

Without a word, Lina laid a hand on Rhiannon's arm and guided her back into the tent. Releasing the other woman and sinking down on a pile of cushions, Lina said simply, ''Dance for me.'' 

For a moment, Rhiannon didn't know what to do and nearly panicked. But the hypnotic rhythm, nearly as old as time itself, somehow seemed to pulse in her blood, carrying instruction and unthinking passion in equal amounts. Instinctively, her hips began to sway; closing her eyes, Rhiannon surrendered to the music, lifted her arms above her head, and danced. 

Lina watched Rhiannon as the other woman gracefully swayed and rolled her hips, hands twining together then coming apart to gesture, beseech... 

Feet flickering on the carpet as she shook her shoulders, the sleeveless vest she wore barely containing her full breasts. Lina's heart beat faster as the music gained tempo and Rhiannon twirled in place, her red-gold hair spinning out like a cloak. The music slowed and Rhiannon planted her feet close to the cushion where Lina sat, rolling her hips up and down, snapping her fingers to the beat. 

Lina stared breathlessly at the spectacle before her eyes. The fiery curls at the juncture of Rhiannon's thighs were pressed and flattened against the sheer, dark blue fabric. Rhiannon had sweated and damp patches on the trousers clung to her skin... but the large wet patch that spread between her legs in an ever increasing circle of darkening silk had nothing to do with exertion and everything with arousal. 

Reaching up a trembling hand, Lina tore the veil she wore away from her face and pushed the turban off, her jet black hair tumbling in curls to the floor. This close, she could smell the musky scent of Rhiannon's desire and it struck an answering chord as an electric thrill jolted up from her core. 

Still Rhiannon danced, ice blue eyes fastened on Lina's, her mouth slightly open as she panted, the strawberry pink color on her cheeks creeping downward to join the flush spreading up from her chest. 

Beads of sweat sprang up on Lina's forehead and she wiped them away unconsciously with her hand. With a quick tug, her robe was shrugged away from her broad shoulders, revealing a simple white cotton djebellah that had ridden up beneath her, exposing her to the waist. The dark curls of her mount were slick with the evidence of her own excitement. 

Rhiannon stepped forward so that Lina's face was mere inches away. Lina slid off her cushion to sit flat on the floor and reaching out, grasped Rhiannon's hips and tugged until she stood with spread thighs directly over Lina's face. Rhiannon stopped dancing and stared down at Lina, who winked an impudent emerald eye. The hands on her hips slid around to grasp her buttocks and Rhiannon gasped deeply when she felt the first wet, hot touch of Lina's tongue sliding over the tight silk that confined her aching core. 

On suddenly weak knees, Rhiannon swayed slightly as the silk was pressed up into her, spreading her apart, and Lina's tongue busily lapped at the barely warded flesh, flicking her swollen nub over and over, until Rhiannon balled her hands up into fists and whimpered loudly. 

Rhiannon had never before realized exactly how strong her lover was until her legs abruptly gave way... Lina was not only able to support her weight on her hands, but lowered Rhiannon gently to the floor without stopping the delicious movements of her tongue. 

Rhiannon lay back on the cushions, thighs spread wide apart as Lina licked and nipped the silk covered folds of her lover's center, her strong hands stretching out to slide beneath the spangled vest and grasp painfully erect nipples, rolling and pinching them gently. 

Her breath escaped in a hiss as Rhiannon felt a glorious rush of pure sensation thrumming throughout her body, like a lightning bolt striking her blind to everything but pleasure, wave after wave, each more intense than the last. Hands buried in Lina's hair, Rhiannon lifted her hips and arched her back, her teeth gritted against the scream building in the back of her throat. 

Finally, as Lina sucked on her nub, silk rasping against the unbearably sensitive flesh, Rhiannon opened her mouth and wailed, shuddering, hips jolting up and down as the pleasure reached its peak and swept her away, pinwheeling into incandescent feeling... sheer sensation buoyed her along for a long minute, then like a feather blown on the wind, let her down gently, gently, back into Lina's strong arms. 

Panting, Rhiannon opened her eyes. Lina had abandoned her position and was laying beside her, pressing gentle kisses on her face. ''Are you ready for your anniversary present, my dear?'' Lina asked softly. 

Rhiannon blew out a breath and chuckled. ''You mean it's better than that?'' she asked impishly. 

Lina's crow of laughter rang out into the night air... and the man watching the tent from the safety of a secluded dune clenched his hands into fists and trembled.

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© Corrieweb 1997- 2005

The Hour of the Jackal by Nene Adams (page 2)

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Rhiannon had abandoned her costume and reclined beside an equally nude Lina in their nest of cushions, feeding her ripe strawberries dipped in honeyed yogurt. ''So... where's my present?'' Rhiannon asked. 

''Right here, my dear,'' Lina answered, reaching around behind her and pulling aside a fold in the tent. The package that stood there was small, about a foot tall, but when the peer handed it to Rhiannon, the strawberry-blonde gasped at its weight. 

Tentatively shaking the package, which was wrapped in colorful silk scarves, Rhiannon said, ''Yours is in the bedroom with my other clothes. Somehow, I had a feeling we'd be exchanging gifts tonight.'' Her pale blue eyes glowed. 

Lina smiled, plucking a strawberry from the platter. ''Do open yours first, Rhiannon. I want to enjoy the expression on your face without distraction.'' 

Rhiannon unwrapped the scarves one by one, revealing a wooden box. Opening it, she reached inside and pulled out an object that had been swathed in dried grasses. 

She gasped. It was a statue, but... where on earth could she have found it? Rhiannon asked herself. 

The statue consisted of a pair of figures on an ivory base. Both were women; the figures faced one another in an embrace. The first was onyx, carved into a warrior woman dressed in breastplate and greaves, the hilt of her sword jutting over her shoulder. The second woman was smaller, made of gilded bronze, and she held a staff in one hand. Their skillfully rendered faces showed such an expression of love that Rhiannon held her breath. 

''It is Egyptian in origin,'' Lina said, grinning at the astonishment and admiration on Rhiannon's face, ''The hieroglyphics on the base indicate that the statue was crafted around 30 B.C.'' 

Rhiannon ran one finger around the tiny etchings that covered the base of the statue. ''That would have been around the time of Octavian's conquest of Egypt,'' she said. ''What do they say?'' 

''Solange took the liberty of having the writing translated. According to her, they read: 'The Eternally Blessed by Hathor, who aided Isis in her flight when the child of Set came as a vulture to feast on the body of the Kingdom. Infinite blessings await thee.' Do you recognize them, my dear?'' 

''They look like us, a little,'' Rhiannon replied. ''What does the inscription mean?'' 

''I can only imagine. I do not know who 'Isis' is. The 'child of Set' mentioned, with his unholy appetite, most likely refers to Octavian himself.'' 

''Lina... where did you get this?'' 

''Again, Solange. I have had her keeping an ear to the grapevine, so to speak, looking for an appropriate anniversary gift. She told me about the statue and made arrangements for its purchase here in Cairo. Selim was a go-between; I do not know the identity of the seller, nor the statue's provenance. I assume it was rifled from an unknown tomb somewhere - perhaps in Thebes.'' 

''It's beautiful, love. But don't you think it belongs in a museum?'' Rhiannon felt a pang at these words; something about the statue, especially the onyx warrior, made her loathe to part with it. But her sense of fairness made her acknowledge that the artifact was of historic significance and valuable in that sense alone. 

Lina snorted. ''No, I do not,'' she answered. ''My dear, that statue can be of value to no one but ourselves. I freely acknowledge its antiquity; however, since the Cairo Museum is in such a state of chaos and disrepair, and since the British Museum has all the Egyptian artifacts anyone can possibly gape at... well, I thought you might treasure it more than a dusty curator.'' 

Rhiannon nodded, somewhat relieved and willing to put aside her reservations; Lina was right - better the statue remain in the house on Grosvenor Square than molder forgotten in some museum basement. Laying the statue aside, she got up and fetched Lina's present from the pocket of her trouser costume, then sat back down and nibbled a strawberry. 

Lina unwrapped the Eye of Horus pendent that Rhiannon had gotten in Selim's shop (she had also added a delicate gold chain discovered in the souk.) Delighted, peer immediately put the chain over her head and admired the pendent where it rested in the valley of her breasts. 

''My dear!'' she said, ''This is extraordinary!'' Lina leaned over and kissed Rhiannon's lips. ''Thank you, truly, my dear. I will treasure it always.'' 

''I treasure you,'' Rhiannon murmured against Lina's lips, her arms snaking around the other woman's neck. ''Thank you for the statue, love. Shall we keep it in the bedroom or do you think our activities might scandalize these ancient women?'' 

Lina grinned wickedly. ''Considering what their own activities may have been, I sincerely doubt they will raise even a single brow.'' She sighed, running a hand up Rhiannon's bare back, ''However... perhaps with practice, we will be able to cause them to rotate a little in their graves.'' Her lips met Rhiannon's in a deep, loving kiss. 

From his perch on the dune, the watcher flinched. In his painful fascination with the scene before him, he did not hear the soft sussurations of footsteps sliding across the sand towards him. A muffled thud as a hard fist struck him in the back of the head, and the unconscious spy was dragged away. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Over the next few days, the steamboat tour stopped at Amarna for the tombs found by Professor Radcliffe Emerson some years earlier, and on the fourth day of their journey, the two women found themselves at a new excavation site at Abydos, led by Doctor James Patterson, an American Egyptologist and archaeologist who was considered an up-and-comer in his field. 

Dr. Patterson was of medium height and slightly plump, the layers of baby fat that rounded his cheeks making him look much younger than his thirty-plus years. He greeted Lady Evangeline and her companion effusively. ''Good morning, ladies!'' he said, rushing forward to shake their hands. ''You have no idea how much I've been anticipating your visit!'' 

Lina raised an eyebrow. ''Pray tell, Dr. Patterson, from whence came your information?,'' she asked in a formal tone. ''And why would you enthuse so over two women who are entirely strangers to your acquaintance?'' 

Patterson flushed, the color blooming on his tanned cheeks. ''I beg your pardon, Lady Evangeline,'' he said, running a hand through his sandy blonde hair. ''It's just that... well, I've been wanting to speak to you about a matter of importance. Your arrival in Cairo was the talk of the fellahin - you know how these fellows gossip - and I, too, have my sources of information. They call you the Sitt Askeri, and your companion is the Ibna'athyr. '' He grinned. ''I have to keep abreast of all the news, you know. Wouldn't want a rival archaeologist to steal a march on me.'' 

''I see.'' Lina tilted back her pith helmet. ''What is the matter you wish to discuss?'' 

Patterson glanced around quickly. ''I would really prefer to have our conversation in private,'' he said in a low voice. ''It is strictly confidential and personal business.'' 

''Lead on!'' Lina said, waving a hand expansively. ''Rhiannon and myself are at your immediate disposal.'' 

Rhiannon nearly dropped her parasol when Patterson blushed again and replied pointedly, ''I'm terribly sorry, Lady Evangeline, but I was hoping to speak to you alone.'' 

Lina glared at the doctor. ''Rhiannon is privy to all my business: personal, private and otherwise. If you wish to speak to me, you will have to do so in her presence.'' She was clearly furious at the implied insult to her beloved wife. 

Rhiannon cleared her throat. ''Lina,'' she said, ''It's all right. You go ahead, I'll be fine. Perhaps Dr. Patterson will let me explore the tomb he has uncovered. I understand there are no artifacts, except for a mummy, and I'd like to make some sketches, if I could, of the inscriptions on the sarcophagus.'' 

Patterson gave Rhiannon a grateful smile. ''Certainly, certainly!'' he said. ''Just follow that trail and please, watch your step! We had a worker fall yesterday from the cliff face because he slipped on some rubble.'' 

Lina drew Rhiannon aside. ''Are you sure, my dear?'' she asked, emerald eyes searching her lover's face. ''Whatever this man's business, I would rather put him off than cause you to feel left out.'' 

Rhiannon patted her arm, enjoying the feel of solid muscle beneath the white shirtwaist Lina wore. ''I'm sure, love. You go ahead; I know you'll tell me all about it later.'' She swung her parasol to one side, shielding them from the stares of casual onlookers. ''I'm willing to make a few concessions, you know. I'm not such a tyrant as all that!'' 

Lina, grateful for the shield, bent her head down and kissed the tip of Rhiannon's nose. ''Thank you, my dear,'' she said, cupping Rhiannon's face and running a thumb across her cheekbone. ''I will tell you everything when we return to the Mirror.'' 

''At any rate,'' Rhiannon replied, snuggling her cheek into Lina's hand, ''I'm positively dying to see that mummy! I'll have some nice pictures to take back to England with me. Maybe, it there's time, I can even sketch some of the murals.'' 

Lina chuckled. ''Very good, my dear. You sketch to your heart's delight; I will join you in a little while to lend encouragement to your artistic efforts.'' Before Rhiannon could move the parasol back over her head, Lina kissed her lightly on the lips and walked away. 

Her mouth still tingling, Rhiannon watched her wife walk back over to Dr. Patterson. In her tan trousers and white shirtwaist, booted and belted and holstered, with a pith helmet tilted on the back of her head, Lina looked the picture of a proper excavationist. 

As Lina and Dr. Patterson began speaking, Rhiannon walked along the trail, headed for the mummy site that had been carved in the cliff face of the valley more than a millennium ago. 

The stone lid was propped against the box-like sarcophagus... The cave was somewhat cooler than the area outside, but the few breezes that blew off the desert were shunted aside by the cave entrance, making the tomb airless and dry. 

The walls were decorated by murals depicting the life of the individual who had been buried there. From Lina's description (gotten from the boat captain), the tomb was that of a priestess of Isis, Asiyya, who had most likely been a contemporary of Kleopatra VII, the infamous Queen who had seduced both Julius Caesar and Marc Antony. 

Rhiannon approached the coffin with a slight feeling of dread. She had seen a few mummies in the museum in Cairo and had been fascinated rather than appalled. But coming here, approaching the long-dead priestess in her burial chamber rather than within the crowded confines of the museum, seemed a much more intimate act. 

She walked closer. Asiyya's body had been wrapped in bandages, stained with dark bitumen, arms crossed over her breast. The wooden mask that would have surmounted her features was merely dust and splinters in the bottom of the coffin. Dr. Patterson was waiting until the mummy could be transported to England before opening her wrappings. Rhiannon looked down, feeling an overwhelming sense of sadness at the pitiful remains. 

Her eye was caught by something. As the sun streamed into the opening of the cave, there was a suggestive glitter just beneath the rim. Leaning forward, Rhiannon could barely make out several rows of tiny hieroglyphics. Taking her notebook out, she began to sketch quickly, squinting as she tried to take in the all important details. As she drew, she realized that these glyphs were different from others she had seen. 

Leaning forward, she balanced on her stomach on the rim of the sarcophagus and sketched furiously, tongue caught between her teeth. In an effort to get even closer, she hitched herself up... and fell face forward onto the mummy with a muffled cry. 

Dust swirled up, choking her, filling her nostrils with the scent of ancient death and decay. Rhiannon flailed her arms, trying to get purchase on the rim to heave herself back up, and one of her hands struck the carved glyphs under the rim. Despite her panicked state, she heard a sharp click that seemed to come from outside the oversized box. 

Finally managing to get herself back upright, Rhiannon blew a lock of strawberry blonde hair out of her face and ruefully sucked a skinned knuckle, her eyes scanning the outside of the coffin. There! Eagerly, she crouched down. The bottom of the sarcophagus had been carved into a series of twisting snakes and now one of the stone cobras protruded more than his fellows. 

Seizing it, she tugged and the snake swung away, revealing a small, thin cavity. Rhiannon removed a hairpin and began digging in the crevice, growing more excited when she realized that there was definitely something in there. After several minutes, Rhiannon was thrilled when a small scrap of papyrus jutted from the opening; she coaxed it along with her hairpin until she could remove it. Rolling it open, she saw the paper was covered in the same script as the coffin inscription. 

Elated, Rhiannon hastily fixed her hair then retrieved her notebook from where it had fallen. Tucking the papyrus into the notebook, she started back down the trail, imagining the look on both the doctor's and her lover's face when she triumphantly gave them what could be a major find. 

Reaching the end of the rock littered trail, Rhiannon looked around, not seeing either Lina or Patterson. After a moment, she realized that the muted roaring she could perceive in the distance was the sound of voices raised in anger... and one of them was Lina's. 

Parasol wavering in one hand, Rhiannon began to run towards the argument, only to skid to a halt when she rounded a corner and took in the scene in front of her. 

Lina was red-faced and belligerently shouting at Patterson, ''I have told you 'no' a thousand times, doctor! My answer was the same both the first and last times, and I fail to see how anyone other than an utter ass can possibly misconstrue my meaning!'' 

Patterson was equally florid. His hands were bunched into fists at his side as he retorted, ''And I have told you, Lady Evangeline, that the smuggling of antiquities is against the law!! If you don't heed my warnings, then I will be forced to introduce the authorities to your illegal activities.'' 

Lina drew a deep breath, nostrils pinched white. ''How dare you threaten me!'' she said loudly. ''The statue is mine! And I defy anyone, including yourself, Dr. Patterson, to deny me my possession! I will not allow you to examine it and I most definitely will not sit quietly by and allow you to make threats! DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?,'' she concluded, thrusting her scowling face into Pattern's own. 

The doctor cringed slightly. Lina was an imposing woman and the clothing she wore only emphasized her strength and excellent physical condition. ''I will only repeat what I have said, Lady Evangeline,'' Patterson said, struggling to control his anger, ''If you allow me to examine the statue, I will not report you to the authorities, or otherwise impede your holiday or your return home. I trust I make myself clear on that count?'' 

Swallowing her fury, Lina said coolly, ''You do.'' 

Turning her head, she spied Rhiannon and walked towards her. Taking her lover's arm, Lina said over her shoulder, ''And I trust you will remember what I have said, Dr. Patterson. If you value your life, do not threaten me and mine.'' With that parting shot, Lina marched away, dragging a gaping Rhiannon along with her. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Lina refused to say a word as the two women were ferried back over to the docked steamboat. Once in the privacy of their cabin, Lina flung herself on the bed and stared into space, brooding. 

Rhiannon caressed the statue which sat on the table beside their bed, sighed, then got up next to Lina, wriggling close and resting her head on her wife's shoulder. 

''What's wrong, love?'' Rhiannon asked softly. ''What did Dr. Patterson say that upset you so much? Why was he threatening you?'' 

Lina snorted, her hand coming up to rest on Rhiannon's hair. ''The abominable nerve of that jackass!'' she said vehemently. ''Patterson insisted that I turn your statue over to him, my dear. For study, if you can believe that!'' 

Rhiannon was bewildered. ''How did he find out about it?'' 

''I have no idea. Perhaps more of his 'contacts' or some such rot. Damn the man for his impertinence! He actually had the gall to tell me that if I did not give him the statue, he would have me arrested for smuggling!'' 

Now it was Rhiannon's turn to snort. ''Who does he think he is?'' she asked. ''After all, you could easily bribe your way out of the charges.'' 

''Indeed. Oh, I do not believe he is serious, my dear. In fact, I believe Dr. Patterson has far more to fear from the authorities than I do.'' 

''What do you mean?'' 

Lina rolled over to face Rhiannon, putting one arm around her waist. ''What you heard was actually the second conversation the doctor and I had. The first time we spoke, he was quite civil, only asking my permission to examine the statue. When I declined, he thanked me for listening and excused himself. I entertained myself by speaking to some of his native workers - who were more forthcoming. They told me that the Busir - that is Patterson's nickname, meaning very plump, ripe dates...'' 

Lina paused while Rhiannon burst into giggles, then continued, ''I believe the expression refers to his general physiology rather than any specific portion of his anatomy, my dear.'' 

''I'm sorry, Lina. I couldn't help it. Doctor Patterson just looked like the type of fellow the 'professional ladies' in Whitechapel used to call 'all potatoes and no meat.''' 

Lina guffawed, then choked, and Rhiannon had to pound her on the back before she could regain her composure. ''Oh, my dear!'' she said, gasping. ''That is entirely enough! May I finish my story now before I expire from your wit?'' 

Since there was a devilish gleam in Lina's emerald green eyes, Rhiannon said with an air of mock-primness, ''Of course, your ladyship. Pray, continue.'' 

''Thank you.'' Lina kissed Rhiannon lightly. ''Now, where was I? Oh, yes... at any rate, the fellahin I spoke to told me that Patterson is involved with the antiquities smuggling business himself, or at least they believe him to be. One name cropped up in my brief investigation - that of Habib ibn Daoud.'' 

''Moriarty's man?'' Rhiannon sat bolt upright. ''You mean Patterson was working with him?'' 

''I do not know the entirety of the connection as yet, my dear. I only know that the good doctor often had Habib as his guest on the dig. They always spoke privately.'' 

''I see. Lina, I have a question - in light of Patterson's interest in the statue, and knowing about Habib... doesn't this tend to indicate that the Jackal is indeed after the statue?'' 

''Precisely, my dear, although I believe that the attacks upon us were far from incidental. I believe this Jackal still has designs upon our lives, and by eliminating us and retrieving the statue, he kills two birds with a single stone.'' 

Rhiannon shuddered. ''Love, I wish you wouldn't use the word 'kill,''' she said. ''I'm nervous enough as it is. Tell me, why did the doctor become violent?'' 

''After I questioned some of the fellahin, Patterson returned. He was already upset and it was clear to me that he was abandoning his former pose. We exchanged some acrimonious words, the doctor made his threats and I made mine. It is my belief that Patterson is working for someone.'' 

''Why's that?'' Rhiannon lay back down and laid her face against the column of Lina's throat. 

''He excused himself and was gone for some time. When he returned, his entire attitude had changed. It is my belief that Patterson consulted with some person during his absence - most likely his master.'' 

''The Jackal?'' 

''Again, most likely, although the unknown factor cannot be ruled out entirely.'' Lina smiled, continuing, ''And how did your own adventure go, my dear?' 

''Good Lord!'' Rhiannon exclaimed, digging into the pocket of her trousers. ''I completely forgot about it. You two were carrying on and then you dragged me away without so much as a how-do-you-do... ah! Here it is,'' she said, waving her notebook. ''I found something!'' 

Lina sat up as well. ''What is it, my dear?'' 

Rhiannon recounted her story about the strange inscription and the hidden cache in the sarcophagus. Pulling out the scrap of papyrus and brandishing it, she concluded, ''And here it is. I meant to give it to Dr. Patterson but...'' 

''Never mind, my dear,'' Lina said, taking the papyrus from Rhiannon and scanning it. ''Hmph. This is the hieratic script - a type of shorthand - used by ancient scholars. There are not many Egyptologists who specialize in this type of script; the foremost who springs immediately to mind is Walter Emerson, brother of Professor Radcliffe Emerson, but he is in England with his wife, Evelyn. Perhaps Petrie...'' 

''Some of the symbols on the paper match the inscription I found,'' Rhiannon pointed out. 

''True.'' The peer tapped the edge of the papyrus on her teeth a moment. ''I believe I know of someone who can help us, my dear. She is at Amra, which is fairly nearby, and she has forgotten more about hieratic script than many of her fellows have learned.'' 

''Who?'' 

''Doctor Angelica Forbes. You will like her, my dear. She is... somewhat eccentric, but a decent soul nonetheless.'' 

Placing the papyrus carefully on the table and weighing one corner with the base of the statue, Lina gathered Rhiannon back into her arms. ''We'll go see Doctor Forbes for tea. At this moment, my beautiful beloved... I would much rather visit you.'' 

They kissed, the sunlight streaming in through the open shutters of the window making dappled patterns on their skins.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Doctor Angelica Forbes proved to be a squat, rough-skinned woman with spiky hair of a peculiar rusty orange sprinkled with gray, and light brown eyes. ''Evie!'' she yelled upon spotting Lina, ''You've come to visit me at last!'' 

She threw her arms around Lina and actually picked the taller woman off her feet, spinning around in a circle, bellowing with laughter. Rhiannon watched this display with a slight feeling of jealousy. It was clear that Lina and Dr. Forbes were old friends... and possibly more. 

A laughing Lina pounded her enthusiastic friend on the back. ''Leave go, you heathen!'' she howled. ''You're making my wife jealous!'' 

''Wife?'' Dr. Forbes put Lina down and pretended to glance around. ''Who on earth would marry you, you insufferable prig!'' 

Lina, still chuckling, led Forbes over to Rhiannon. ''Allow me the extreme pleasure of introducing my wife, Rhiannon Moore. Rhiannon, my dear, this is Doctor Angelica Peyton Forbes, also known as Prickles for the way she made her students squirm with her gimlet eye and sharp tongue at school.'' 

Forbes beamed and stuck out a hand. ''My pleasure, Miss Moore,'' she said. Turning back to Lina, she demanded, ''Now, why are you bothering me, Evie? I'm a busy woman, you know.'' The gleam in her eyes belied the sharpness of her statement. 

''Prickles, I need some hieratic script translated,'' Lina said. ''I knew you were the only one I could count on to do a proper job.'' 

Forbes flashed her a grin. ''Well now, that's a pretty way of putting it!'' she replied. ''All right, Evie, where is it?'' 

Rhiannon handed the doctor the papyrus and her notes. Before leaving the boat, she had copied the script from the base of the statue at Lina's suggestion, ''Just in case.'' 

Forbes took the papyrus and unfolded it carefully, squinting. ''Hmmm... yes, looks genuine to me,'' she said thoughtfully, all trace of her former humor gone, swallowed up by scholarly concerns. ''Come along, ladies,'' she continued, still staring down with a small frown. ''We'll repair to my tent. Some of this symbology is a bit obscure; I'll need to consult my references.'' 

Lina waited until the doctor had moved away a bit, then took Rhiannon's hand. ''My dear, Prickles is one of the foremost scholars in Egyptian history and one of the most stubborn women I know. Once she gets her teeth into a problem, she is a veritable bulldog.'' 

''Lina... was she just your teacher?'' Rhiannon hadn't meant to ask the burning question, but somehow, it just blurted out when she opened her mouth. 

Lina guffawed, then raised Rhiannon's hand to her lips, kissing it softly. ''You really must stop persisting in believing every woman of my acquaintance is a former lover. I have not had all that many, you know. Angelica Prickles is a friend and a former teacher, nothing else.'' 

''Oh.'' Rhiannon blushed. ''I'm sorry, I just...'' 

Doctor Forbes voice floated over the desert, deep and bellicose. ''WILL you two stop all that billing and cooing and come along? Really, it's getting quite sickening. Take pity on a poor old spinster and cease this public display of affection... or at least invite me to join you!!'' 

Lina and Rhiannon looked at one another... flushed... then giggled. 

Forbes stared down at the papyrus then glanced at the large open book near her elbow, running a finger down a column. Muttering to herself, she made another note on a sheet of paper. 

Rhiannon sat on a large black trunk, looking around the inside of the tent. It was certainly different from the luxuriously romantic tent she and Lina had shared before. Small, crowded with trunks, boxes, crates and more. A small narrow cot was sheathed in mosquito netting and Rhiannon did not really want to know how Doctor Forbes managed her personal ablutions in such a crude setting. 

Lina was assisting the doctor, fetching books and notebooks from various places, making tea and generally fussing in an atypical manner that Rhiannon found disquieting, despite her lover's assurances that there was no romantic connection between herself and the Egyptologist. 

At last, Forbes sighed and rubbed her hand through her spiky orange hair. ''Well, it's one of the most extraordinary stories I've seen,'' she said, ''and if it had come from anyone but you, Evie, I'd think I was being made the butt of some joke.'' 

Rhiannon sat up straighter and Lina sat down next to her, taking her hand absently. 

Forbes noticed the gesture and smiled. ''The translation of the statue base is, 'The eternal lovers, blessed by Hathor, who aided the Queen when she fled from the Roman jackal who tore at the body of Egypt in her death throes.''' She stopped and looked with consternation at the expression on Lina's face. ''Whatever is the matter, Evie?'' 

Lina replied, ''The translation I received was somewhat different. 'The Eternally Blessed by Hathor, who aided Isis in her flight when the Child of Set came as a vulture to feast upon the body of the Kingdom.''' 

''Who did that translation?'' Forbes asked angrily. ''Some first year archaeology student? I assure you, Evie, my translation is the more correct.'' 

''Could you have missed something?,'' Lina asked. ''The inscription is faded.'' 

''I'll have you know, Evie, I was translating papyri when you were still getting beaten up by third form bullies in school!'' the doctor retorted. 

While the two women wrangled, Rhiannon had been thinking. ''Wait!'' she exclaimed, blushing when Forbes and Lina turned to her with surprise. ''I think I know what it means.'' 

Forbes gave Rhiannon a shockingly sweet smile. ''Indeed?'' she said indulgently. ''Do go on, Miss Moore.'' 

Lina flashed Forbes a glare but the doctor merely shrugged and batted her eyelashes innocently. Rhiannon did not notice. ''Lina, who did the translation the first time?'' 

The peer thought about it and finally shrugged. ''Solange obtained it from somewhere. It never occurred to me to ask where or from whom.'' 

''Can we send a message to the hotel?'' Rhiannon asked. 

Lina and Forbes exchanged a look. ''Well...,'' Lina said, ''I can certainly telegraph her, the Mirror of Hathor has such facilities, but my dear - why?'' 

''Because I believe we were deliberately misled,'' Rhiannon replied. ''Doctor Forbes translation is much more straightforward than the first. I have no idea who the eternal lovers are, maybe Amazons, I don't know - the women depicted in the statue certainly seem warlike! But the Queen must be Kleopatra VII, because the Roman can be none other than Gaius Octavian Caesar.'' 

Lina considered this. ''Upon reflection,'' she said, ''I believe you are correct. Somehow, those women did something for the unfortunate Kleopatra... something about aiding her flight? But according to history, Kleopatra committed suicide. Her eldest son was murdered by Octavian and her two younger children by Julius Caesar disappeared, it being generally believed that they were slain in secret on Octavian's orders.'' 

Forbes spoke up. ''Perhaps the translation of the priestess' tomb, as well as the papyrus, will shed some light. If you will allow me to get on with the job you begged me to perform?'' 

Lina waved a hand. ''By all means, Prickles. I apologize for disturbing your train of thought.'' 

Forbes cleared her throat. ''The symbols in the sarcophagus are in hieratic script, all right, but the message is obscure. Translated, they read, 'Let the one who comes seeking knowledge be rewarded by death.' Not your typical 'whosoever disturbs my tomb' curse, as you can see. I can only believe it must have some bearing on the matter at hand.'' 

''And the papyrus?'' Rhiannon asked. 

''Tells a strange story indeed...'' Forbes' pale brown eyes met Rhiannon's, and the strawberry-blonde could only grip her lover's strong hand as the doctor recited her amazing tale. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

ALEXANDRIA, EGYPT
30 B.C.

"You must go, my friends. He will be coming soon; my soldiers cannot fend him off much longer.'' The woman speaking was beautiful, with creamy skin, dark liquid eyes, and her hair was covered by a luxurious wig of braids decorated with gold-and-lapis beads. 

''I won't leave you,'' the woman warrior said. ''What about your children? What will happen to them?'' 

The Egyptian woman cast her eyes downward. Like all of the nobility, her eyes had been outlined in an elongated swirl of kohl, and crushed malachite made the lids shimmer with green fire. ''I can do nothing for my children,'' she said sadly. ''Marc Antony is dead and even now Octavian roars in triumph. I will not be taken to Rome in chains! Nor will my little ones; my guards will see to that.'' 

Her face bore a look of stubborn determination and she raised flashing eyes. ''They will not have my body, either! The Queen of Egypt will not be paraded before the Roman mob to be mocked and defiled!'' 

A third woman stepped forward, her voice musical and soft. ''What if there's a better way?'' the smaller warrior asked. ''Will you at least consider an alternative?'' 

Asiyyah, faithful handmaiden and priestess of Isis, knelt at her Queen's feet to add her own pleas. ''Please, your Majesty, listen to them! They are strangers but do they not have the blessing of Hathor and are favored by Isis Herself? Heed what they say, I beg you!'' 

The Queen's hand stole out and caressed Asiyyah's hair. ''My faithful one,'' she murmured. ''My fate is already at hand,'' she said with a gesture to a covered basket sitting on a table. ''The asp is within; a single  bite and I will sleep for eternity. Your final service to me will be to take my body to the Place of Anubis to be prepared by His Servants and to see to its placement in the royal tomb.'' 

Asiyyah wept and the warrior grasped the Queen's arm. ''Your Majesty, this doesn't have to be! Let us help you escape! We can sneak past the Romans, get you and your children to safety...'' 

The Queen shook her head and pulled her arm from the warrior's grip. ''No, my friends,'' she said with a sad smile. ''Escape, and for what? To spend the remainder of my years in exile, waiting for the knock of some bounty hunter at my door? I would rather die with my pride intact, knowing that with me, the line of the Ptolemies ends.'' 

Scrubbing at the tears on her face, Asiyyah bent her head down and kissed the Queen's sandal. Then  she slowly rose and with an air of utter tranquillity, kissed the Queen on the lips. 

The Queen's hand rose to cup Asiyyah's cheek. While they kissed, the smaller woman went to her warrior and took her strong hand, squeezing it gently. 

Asiyyah released her Queen and walked to the table, pouring a glass of wine while the strangers offered suggestions to the stoic Queen. Seeing that she was unobserved, her small hand stole to the lid of the reed basket, and pushed it aside. 

A small moan cut through the conversation like a spear thrust. All three women spun around... and beheld Asiyyah, trembling, holding the small asp to her throat. Before they could move, or shout, or even draw a breath, the handmaiden collapsed to the floor. 

Drawing her sword, the warrior flicked the deadly serpent away from Asiyyah, dashing it against a wall and killing it instantly. Then she knelt down beside the dying woman and examined the tiny wound on her neck. Raising her eyes, the warrior said regretfully, ''There's nothing I can do.'' 

The Queen sank to her knees, clasping Asiyyah's hand. Tears welled up from her great dark eyes, overflowing, causing lines of kohl to streak her cheeks. ''Oh, my faithful one!'' the Queen moaned. ''Why have you done this thing?'' 

Asiyyah struggled to draw breath. The serpent's poison ran through her veins like liquid fire but she knew she must do her beloved Queen this final service. ''Take... my body... The Romans will... not know... I die in... your place, my... beloved. Your children... must live... you... must live... go...please...'' 

The Queen held Asiyyah's hand to her cheek, crying. ''If you die, my heart dies with you!'' she sobbed. ''But I cannot be a subject of Rome!'' 

Asiyyah looked up at her Queen, her eyes beginning to glaze as the poison reached her heart. ''Go... be... a subject... only of yourself.... promise me...'' 

''Yes,'' the Queen whispered, ''Yes, Asiyyah. I will do as you ask. I would die for pride but I will live for you.'' 

Asiyyah smiled, a smile of such heart-stopping tenderness that even the warrior stifled a sob. Then, with a sigh, she died. 

The Queen wept quietly a few minutes more as the warrior and her companion stood aside to allow her time to grieve privately. Slowly, stiffly, like a woman far older than her years, she rose and faced them, the two strangers who had come to aid the Egyptian in her time of need, according to the dictates of a centuries-long secret treaty between the two nations. 

The Queen's face was streaked by kohl and malachite, but the dignity of her bearing and the suffering in her eyes made the clownishly smeared cosmetics seem like some regal mask. ''What must I do?'' she asked. ''Where will you take us?'' 

The smaller woman asked gently, ''Then you'll let us help you escape? You and your children?'' 

''Yes.'' The Queen removed her wig and cast it aside. Her own hair was like fine black silk, now matted with sweat. ''Asiyyah was more than a servant to me. I used Caesar to save my kingdom; I loved Antony with my heart; but Asiyyah is the keeper of my soul. She sacrificed herself to allow me and my children a chance at life; I cannot allow that sacrifice to be in vain.'' 

Clapping her hands, she summoned servants, who looked appalled at the dead handmaiden. ''Fetch the priests of Anubis,'' she commanded, ''then bring me my children. Warrior, instruct these in what I must bring with me for our journey. We leave within the hour, and there are preparations I must make...'' 

As the servants scurried to obey their Queen's commands, the smaller woman drew the Queen aside. ''Your Majesty, I don't understand. If you loved Asiyyah so much...'' 

''Then why do I not mourn for her now?'' The Queen's eyes sought the stranger's. ''I am a queen,'' she said gently, ''and my duty was to my country and to my house. Now, it is to myself and my children. I will mourn my beloved Asiyyah later, when there is time and I can be only a woman. But for now, I am still a queen and I must hold my tears in my heart.'' 

The warrior woman from distant Amazonia nodded in understanding. 

The chief priest of Anubis was the only one who was given the complete details of their desperate escape plan... and private instructions from his Queen, which he followed faithfully -  along with his own personal agenda, which he enacted with casual brutality as soon as the Queen was gone, safeguarding her for eternity and accepting the shame of his deeds on his own soul. 

And the deed was done. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

AMRA, EGYPT
August 1889

Rhiannon stared. ''But if Asiyyah was buried as Kleopatra, then whose body is in that tomb?'' 

''I suspect it is the body of some other woman, Miss Moore,'' Forbes replied. ''And I further suspect that the tomb was put there for a reason other than a final resting place.'' 

''I believe you are right,'' Lina said, rubbing her nose. ''So, Kleopatra and her children escaped from Alexandria, and went - where?'' 

''Deponent sayeth not,'' Forbes said dryly. ''These Amazons mentioned... do you know their identity?'' 

Lina and Rhiannon looked at one another. ''No,'' Rhiannon answered. ''I thought serious scholars didn't believe in Amazons.'' 

Forbes glared. ''For your information, ladies, I have been seeking proof of the Amazon legend for years. You can't prove a negative, after all. And some of the evidence I've uncovered goes rather against the grain of modern belief.'' 

Lina sighed. ''Very well, Prickles. Enlighten us.'' 

"Not much to tell, actually. During an excavation in Greece by one of my colleagues, some rather provocative bits of pottery turned up. Depicted on the fragments were women warriors bearing spears, wearing armor and generally wrecking havoc on their Spartan enemies. Although that idiot who found them decided they were mythological, I've since done my own examination. I believe that a race of Amazons did exist; furthermore, I believe they were not only warriors but scholars, traders and visitors to distant lands. If, in fact, they influenced this particular segment of Egyptian history, then whatever secret this statue conceals may very well turn accepted knowledge on its head.'' 

Rhiannon's brows drew together. ''And that's why you're excavating in Egypt? Looking for Amazons?'' 

''Yes, and it appears I may have found them, albeit accidentally.'' 

A thought struck her and Rhiannon had to ask, ''The Chief Priest's instructions - what do you suppose they were?'' 

Forbes sighed. ''My children, much of history is neither kind nor compassionate. If I were to guess, based on my knowledge of the times, I would say that Kleopatra instructed the Priest to bury Asiyyah as if the unfortunate handmaiden were herself. As far as the Priest's own agenda... well, does not history tell us that Kleopatra's eldest son was slain and her two youngest children disappeared after being captured by Octavian?'' 

For a moment, Rhiannon was nonplussed and stared at the archaeologist. Then her puzzled expression changed to one of profound sadness. ''Oh,'' she breathed. 

''Precisely, my dear,'' Lina said, patting her wife's hand. ''The Priest must have found substitute children to take the place of his Queen's own. Consider: had Octavian not been presented with children he believed to be Kleopatra's, what would he have done?'' 

Forbes answered. ''Turned all of Egypt upside down in his search. He would have had the Queen's body or so he obviously thought. But her children - they had to be eliminated lest they form a focus for Egyptian rebellion against Rome.'' 

''But children?!'' Rhiannon seemed about to cry. 

''My dear, the times were far more brutal than they are today. They were most likely the children of slaves, considered hardly better than animals and certainly of little or no value. The Priest did what he thought was necessary to preserve his Queen's life. Although I am sure that you or I' would have strongly objected to his plan, Kleopatra would not. Whether she actually knew... again, as Prickles so succinctly put it, deponent sayeth not.'' Lina squeezed Rhiannon's hand gently. 

Rhiannon sniffled back her tears. ''I can't help but feel sad. It was a terrible thing to do.'' 

''I agree, my dear.'' Lina put an arm around her wife's shoulders. ''However, political necessity often outweighs common decency.'' 

Forbes cleared her throat. ''There is one other thing on the papyrus, Evie. Something important.'' 

''Yes?'' Both pairs of eyes, emerald and pale blue, stared at the archaeologist. 

''Directions.'' 

For a moment, there was stunned silence. ''Did you say directions, Prickles?'' Lina asked, her mouth suddenly dry. 

''Yes.'' Forbes took a sip of cold tea, grimacing. ''Listen to this: 'A reward awaits the faithful, in death but not in life. Seek the paired, the lover's souls, for it is they who hold the key to riches.''' She stopped and waited. 

Lina frowned in thought. ''My dear,'' she said absently, ''Did you have time to make any sketches of the murals in the tomb?'' 

Rhiannon shook her head. ''No and it's a pity, too. There was a very nice one on the back wall; it looked hardly touched, the colors were so clear. There was a sun, and a boat, some animals and things - and a queer looking figure, a man with the head of a jackal holding a spear.'' 

Lina and Forbes looked at one another, then slowly, looked back at Rhiannon, who blushed. ''What?'' the strawberry blonde asked. ''What did I say?'' 

With a whoop, Lina kissed the astonished Rhiannon's forehead vigorously. ''Anubis! Guardian of the gateway of the dead! Oh, my dearest darling, you have done it!'' 

Forbes grinned widely. ''Evie... are you thinking what I'm thinking?'' 

Lina nodded and Rhiannon exclaimed, exasperated, ''Well, I wish someone would explain it to me!'' 

Chuckling, Lina said, ''The tomb, Rhiannon. There is a treasure in the tomb!'' 

Rhiannon sighed and masterfully refrained from jabbing an elbow into Lina's ribs. ''I still don't understand.'' 

''Allow me.'' Forbes stood up and began to pace, her hands clasped behind her back. ''Many of the tombs built for Egyptian royalty contained a maze of passageways, traps, secret rooms and the like, all built for the purpose of confusing thieves. The papyrus was discovered in a secret niche in a sarcophagus which does not contain the body of Asiyyah, correct?'' 

Rhiannon nodded and Forbes continued, ''Then it seems likely to me that behind that back wall, behind the mural of Anubis, lies a secret room... and one which contains a treasure of some sort. Your statue is the key, Miss Moore. Remember the translation?'' 

Slowly, Rhiannon repeated, '''A reward awaits the faithful, in death but not in life. Seek the paired, the lover's souls, for it is they who hold the key to riches.' The 'death not in life' part refers to the mural of Anubis. And the 'lovers' must be the statue! Oh, Lina,'' she said, turning to the grinning peer, ''this is wonderful!'' 

''Indeed.'' Forbes began unbuttoning her shirt. ''I shall accompany you, I think. Patterson had surely heard of my reputation; he won't deny me visitation rights. Let me change into something a bit cleaner, children, then we'll go pay a call on the good doctor.'' 

As Forbes stripped, Rhiannon noted the scars on the other woman's sunbrowned hide. She frowned again, wondering just exactly how Doctor Forbes had gotten so tanned in places where decent clothing should cover. 

Forbes noticed Rhiannon's look and smiled, tossing her shirt into a corner. Around her neck, she wore a small silver amulet on a chain; the stylized bow and arrow bounced between her small, firm breasts. The doctor was thick waisted but powerfully built; muscles rolled in her shoulders as she dug through a clothes chest. ''I often remove my shirt while digging, Miss Moore,'' she said. ''If the men can be comfortable, I see no reason why I should not avail my own self of the opportunity.'' 

As the archaeologist began splashing water on her face and neck from a basin in a corner of the tent, Lina leaned over and spoke softly into Rhiannon's ear. ''The Egyptians call her the Sitt Alim, which means lady scholar. But they also believe her to be a mighty sorceress who enjoys the protection of Isis. Truly, Prickles need have no fear of her men, who would most likely cut off their own arms before touching her with impropriety.'' 

Forbes walked back over, shrugging into a clean white shirt. ''Yes, and I have a gun and a knife and know quite well how to use both. Not to mention my trusty bullwhip; just the thing for beating off ill-intentioned wooers.'' At Lina's astonished glance, she smiled. ''I have excellent hearing, too.'' 

Rhiannon giggled. ''Do you have many wooers?'' she asked impudently. Despite her earlier misgivings, Rhiannon was beginning to like the crusty archaeologist. 

Forbes winked and ran both hands through her short damp hair. ''None as beautiful as you, my dear Miss Moore,'' she answered, then said to Lina, ''If I should ever hear of you mistreating this delightful creature, Evie, I shall be quite cross and beat you with my bullwhip before snatching her away entirely.'' 

''You need have no fear of that, Prickles,'' Lina replied, bestowing a fond kiss on Rhiannon's forehead. ''I love Rhiannon far too much to allow her to be brutalized by an old bag of bones such as yourself.'' 

Forbes led the way out of the tent as she continued to argue, ''Old bag of bones, am I? Why, I'll have you know, you insufferable prig, that when I was your age I cut quite the swathe among the debutantes in London.'' 

''Most likely the aged chaperones, Prickles. I've heard the stories.'' 

Rhiannon giggled again, and followed the two women out into the desert.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

They arrived at Abydos just after dusk. Torches had been lit; the reflection of their flames wavered on the water as the small boat Lina had hired bumped against the dock. The three women climbed out of the boat and watched as it was rapidly oared away by a pair of swarthy teenagers. 

The dig site seemed eerily quiet; not a sound save for the rustling of tent flaps and the subdued murmur of the wind whispering across the sands. The camp was apparently deserted; there was no sign of the doctor or his employees. 

''I wonder where the devil Doctor Patterson is?'' Lina asked; her voice, though soft, was shockingly loud against the silence. 

Forbes peered around. ''I don't see his men, either. And it is the wrong time of the week for religious observances.'' She dug into a trouser pocket and pulled out a pocket watch. ''Only a bit before six o'clock. Perhaps Patterson is sitting down to tiffin or some such. One tends to forget the social niceties implied by a late supper when one is dwelling in desert country.'' She stuffed the watch back into her pocket. 

Rhiannon hefted the small carpetbag she had brought. Before coming to the campsite, they had stopped briefly at the Mirror of Hathor to pick up the statue. ''Do we want to look for the doctor, or do we go straight to the tomb? I think I remember the way.'' 

Lina and Forbes silently consulted one another, then Lina said decisively, ''Let us go on to the tomb. If the doctor is, as I suspect, not fighting on the side of the angels, it is best that our presence be concealed as long as possible.'' 

As the three women marched to the rocky trail, Forbes said thoughtfully, ''You know, it's been a few years, but I recall this fellow archaeologist, Henry Jones. Came out here a while back; seemed to think he had a line on the Holy Grail, if you can believe that.'' She sighed. ''Sometimes I wonder about the connection between genius and insanity.'' 

Rhiannon shook her head and Lina answered, ''Indeed?'' 

Forbes laughed softly. ''As a matter of fact, this entire situation reminds me of the time when Jones was attempting to break into this burial site. Seems the young man was convinced he'd find a Templar Knight, poor thing, and the need for stealth was absolute, but unfortunately, he had consumed a great tin of beans for supper that evening...'' 

As Forbes entertained them with her story, she helped Lina guide Rhiannon up the steep treacherous slope that led to the tomb. Finally, they reached the end of the trail and stood a moment, listening intently. 

The tomb was dark and quiet, the entrance an inky hole in the cliff side, seeming to Rhiannon like a toothless mouth yawning in an eyeless face. Forbes lit the torch she carried in one hand, and led the way inside. 

The flickering torchlight caused eerie shadows to dance along the walls, making the murals and their animal and human figures seem somehow more sinister, vaguely disquieting and threatening. The sarcophagus was exactly as Rhiannon had seen it last, the lid propped up against one side. 

Forbes looked down into the stone coffin and her face became grim. ''Was it like this before?'' she asked Rhiannon. 

The strawberry blonde stood on tiptoe and leaned over the edge. Then she gasped. ''No! It wasn't. What could have happened?'' 

Lina joined them. ''It appears as if the unfortunate mummy has been eviscerated,'' she said. ''I realize it is normal procedure to attempt an unwrapping but...'' 

Forbes sighed. ''But all attempts are usually made to preserve the wrappings, etc. This looks as if it were done by a common butcher. I wonder, could the Gurneh thieves have been here already? Patterson doesn't seem to have set any kind of guard.'' 

''The Gurneh-wa's would have carted the mummy away entirely to work on it at their leisure. And they would have at least taken some of the murals as well. No, those hereditary thieves have not had a hand in this work,'' Lina answered. ''But you are correct; this was an amateurish job done by someone in a great hurry, who was apparently looking for something.'' 

Rhiannon had wandered away, sickened by the sight of the violated mummy. She was examining a mural when a stone turned beneath her foot and she nearly fell. ''Oof!'' she exclaimed, catching herself against the wall. 

Instantly, Lina and Forbes were at her side. ''Are you quite all right, my dear?'' Lina asked anxiously. 

''Yes, I'm fine,'' Rhiannon answered, slightly exasperated, ''I just stepped on a rock or something. That's all.'' 

Forbes squatted down, holding the torch low enough to cast its light on the floor. With an air of triumph, she snatched something up and held it out to Lina. ''It isn't a stone at all. Take a look at this, Evie.'' 

The peer frowned. ''Another of those cursed jackal amulets! Well, my suppositions as regards Patterson were, alas, all too correct.'' 

Forbes rose. ''Perhaps now is a good time to tell me everything you've gotten yourself into, Evie.'' She stuck the torch upright in a pile of loose rocks in one corner and crossed her arms across her chest. ''Everything. Now.'' 

Lina sighed and rolled her eyes. ''But Prickles...'' 

''Don't 'but Prickles' me, young lady! Let's have it. I deserve to know and by God! I can wait here all night if necessary.'' Forbes glared up at Lina, who acquiesced with an apologetic smile to Rhiannon. 

''It began a few days ago in Cairo,'' Lina began, hastily explaining the assassination attempts, the mysterious criminal known only as the Jackal, and both her own and Sherlock Holmes' deductions. Forbes nodded calmly as the whole story was laid before her. 

When Lina finished, the archaeologist rubbed one hand through her spiky rust-orange hair. ''I've heard of this Jackal as well, Evie. But I believe Mr. Holmes to be wrong; the Jackal is a woman.'' 

''A woman?'' Lina exclaimed. ''Surely you must be mistaken!'' 

Forbes shook her head. ''I may be a scholar, my child, but I don't spend all my time hunting tombs. And I enjoy a close relationship with my men, who tell me everything they hear. This Jackal has been a large part of the smuggling underworld in Egypt for a few years; whoever it is, she is very good at what she does. No one to my knowledge has ever seen her, but according to rumor, she's European, frightfully cunning, and as deadly as a cobra.'' 

Rhiannon snorted. ''Well, we already know about her cunning and her deadliness,'' she said. ''What we don't know is, why us? She started trying to kill us practically our first day in Egypt, before Lina even obtained the statue.'' 

Forbes shrugged. ''Perhaps we'll find out; then again, perhaps not. History is full of mysteries, you know. Now, let me see this statue, if you please.'' 

Rhiannon handed the carpetbag to Forbes, who removed the statue and sat cross-legged on the floor, examining it closely. After a few minutes, Lina motioned her lover away. 

''She will be oblivious for a little while, my dear. Let us see if we can find another torch somewhere about the place; we shall require more light for the next stage of our investigation.'' The peer smiled down at Rhiannon, who returned the good-natured grin. 

They hunted through the debris until they found a ground-out torch and lit it from Forbes'. Then, the pair held hands while they examined the mural on the back wall... time ticked away slowly but inexorably, and the moon rose over the desert landscape, flooding the land with silver fire. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Forbes had joined Rhiannon and Lina in their minute examination of the Anubis mural. Finally, the archaeologist scratched her head and said, ''Step away for a moment, ladies. I'm going to attempt something.'' 

The two women watched as Forbes ran one hand across the painted god, and gasped as a previously hidden spear sprang out of the wall, coming frighteningly close to skewering the archaeologist. She waved one hand at their exclamations. ''I'm quite all right, it missed me entirely, and I was expecting something of the sort. Now, let me see...'' 

Grasping the handle of the spear, Forbes tugged... then let go of the haft after a moment. Spitting on both hands, she took a firmer grip and began to pull in earnest, the shoulder seams of her shirt straining as the powerful woman exerted all the strength she could. Lina joined her, both of them grunting with effort. 

Slowly, sand trickling down into the straining women's faces, a muted grinding filled the tomb as a section of the wall began to swing away. Lina and Forbes redoubled their efforts and in a few minutes, a dark gap in the wall had appeared, just big enough to accomodate a single person. 

Wiping the perspiration from her red face, Forbes took a torch. ''I will go first,'' she announced, waiting patiently until Lina ran out of breath to argue. ''I have far more experience in this sort of thing, Evie. There may be other traps beyond the wall and I'm sure Miss Moore would hardly forgive me if anything happened to you.'' 

Grumbling, Lina nodded her reluctant consent and Rhiannon let out the breath she had been holding. The smaller woman had been prepared to hold her lover back by main force if necessary; although she certainly didn't want anything to happen to Angelica Forbes, she also knew it was best to let a professional take charge. 

While Lina has many talents, Rhiannon thought, defusing five thousand year old traps isn't one of them.

Forbes cautiously entered the dark space, holding the torch out in front of her. 

While Rhiannon retrieved the statue, she could hear the archaeologist's voice floating hollowly from the hole. ''There are stairs here, rock cut no less.'' She sounded excited. ''That means man-made! I'm going down; you two stay up there until I get back.'' 

''Keep talking!'' Lina said loudly, leaning into the passage. ''If I don't hear something from you, Prickles, I'm coming down myself.'' 

Forbes' amused chuckle sounded far away. ''I'm fine... the stairs go straight down and are in excellent condition. However...'' 

Lina waited a moment before calling out, ''However what? Prickles? What is going on?'' 

There was silence, then a loud, ''DAMNATION!'' and nothing else. 

''Prickles?'' Lina shouted as Rhiannon hurried to her side, the statue cradled in her arms. ''Angelica? Are you all right?'' 

''What happened?'' Rhiannon asked. 

''I do not know, my dear,'' Lina replied, brow creased with worry. ''Prickles! Answer me!'' They waited breathlessly but there was no reply. 

Lina looked down at Rhiannon. ''I am going down. She may be injured; surely if she were able to speak, she would have reassured us by now. I hate to leave you in the dark, my dear, but I simply must have that torch.'' 

Rhiannon narrowed her eyes. ''I'm going with you,'' she said stubbornly. ''And don't argue with me, love! Where you go, I go.'' 

Lina opened her mouth, then shut it again. ''Very well,'' she said, ''But stay behind me. Any dangers we may encounter will most likely come from the front...'' 

Rhiannon started to object, but was silenced by Lina's insistent, ''Listen to me! Do this for my own peace of mind, my dear! I simply cannot concentrate on the task at hand if I am in fear of your life, and would you have me fail poor Prickles because I was distracted by my wife's obstinacy?'' 

Part of Rhiannon wanted to object most strongly but she held her tongue. It was something, at least, that Lina had agreed to her going - and there was Doctor Forbes to consider. ''Then lead the way,'' she said. ''I'll be right behind you.'' 

Bestowing a grateful kiss on Rhiannon's lips, Lina grabbed the torch and entered the passageway, the smaller woman on her heels. 

After descending the stairs in silence for a moment, Lina said, ''I see what Prickles was meaning to tell us before she became incommunicado.'' Her voice echoed strangely against the rock walls and ceiling. 

''What?'' Rhiannon scanned the narrow passageway, the precious statue clutched to her bosom. 

''See?'' Lina stopped and indicated a stair riser, then motioned forward. ''The dust has been disturbed; these stairs are practically clean, but you can see how much rock dust there was by the accumulation of that substance on the edges. Someone, or several someones, have been here before us; Prickles' passage can hardly account for such cleanliness.'' 

Rhiannon nodded. ''So we aren't the first to discover the passage. I wonder who was?'' 

Lina shrugged and continued downward. ''I have no idea, my dear. But I strongly suspect we shall find out shortly.'' 

It took only a few more minutes, even moving slowly, to step off the final stair, and into what appeared to be a large cavern. There still was no sign of Doctor Forbes. 

''Where could she be?'' Rhiannon wondered aloud, as Lina swept the torch back and forth, trying to estimate the ceiling height and dimensions of the cave. 

A strange voice echoed out of the darkness and Rhiannon's heart nearly stopped in shock. ''Why, the good doctor is fine,'' the voice said, a note of amusement in its tone. ''For now.'' 

Rhiannon glanced up at Lina, and her heart skipped a beat again when she saw the look of sheer horror on her wife's face. 

''Lina? What is it?'' Rhiannon whispered. 

''I know that voice,'' Lina replied just as softly, green eyes wide with shock. ''I thought she was dead.'' 

Rhiannon could only wonder at this statement, then the rasp of drawn steel made her gasp and take a firmer grip on the statue. 

CHAPTER THIRTY

Torches sprang to golden life, and the resulting flare of light made Rhiannon squint. In a few moments, her eyes adjusted and she saw several dozen Egyptian men, clad in djebellahs and turbans, their faces swathed in bushy beards; she also recognized Doctor Patterson, his round face shiny with sweat. Standing beside him, however, was a stranger... a woman with platinum blonde hair whose colorless eyes held more than a hint of madness. 

The woman spoke; it had been her voice they heard. ''Welcome to my little party, your Ladyship,'' she said mockingly. ''I'm glad you could come, even if my invitation was a bit obscure; but I knew you'd figure it out eventually.'' 

''Victoire... I thought you were dead,'' Lina moaned, the torch she still held in her hand wavering. 

Victoire let out a silvery laugh. ''Ah, yes,'' she replied, licking her lips. ''You thought I was dead. You weren't alone, Evie. I woke up in the hospital; one of my confederates with more fortitude than the rest dug me out of the rubble before the police arrived. So you see, I survived... despite your efforts to the contrary.'' 

Patterson spoke up. ''Give me the statue,'' he demanded. 

Rhiannon held it tightly and shook her head, edging closer to Lina. ''What do you want it for?'' she asked. 

Victoire pointed a finger at both women and immediately the Egyptian men leveled rifles and pistols at Lina and Rhiannon. ''Give the doctor the statue, cherie,'' she said, her reasonable tone belied by the fire that burned in her eyes. ''Or I'll just take it off your dead body.'' 

Swallowing, Rhiannon surrendered the statue to one of the Egyptians, who carried it over to Patterson. The doctor snatched it away and hurried over to a small wooden table. Muttering to himself, he took up a jeweler's loupe and began examining the base. 

Victoire dusted off the legs of her khaki trousers and smiled. ''It's been a long time, ma petite. Did you miss me?'' 

The torch dropped from Lina's hand and smoldered on the floor. ''How...?,'' the peer asked, clearly confused and shocked. 

Rhiannon stepped up to Lina's side and took her hand while the Frenchwoman explained. 

''Ah, that little trick of mine. Well you see, Evie, when you let go of me, I fell into the flames. Do you know what it feels like to burn alive? No?'' She licked her lips and patted her hair. ''As I told you, one of my confederates in the forgery ring dug me out and took me to the hospital. I was rather badly burned and the doctors thought I would die. But I didn't.'' Victoire shrugged and let out another high-pitched laugh that made Rhiannon flinch. 

Lina was silent, then said slowly, ''I did not let go of you, Vicky. You fell. It was an accident.'' 

Abruptly, Victoire's air of normality vanished; her lips peeled away from her teeth in a snarl and her hands knotted into fists. ''Lying bitch!'' she gritted, striding forward and slapping Lina across the face as hard as she could. The sound of the blow echoed through the stone cavern; the peer, her pale face marked in blazing red on one side, turned her head and looked down at the seething Frenchwoman. 

Victoire was panting. ''Bitch! Salope! You left me there to die! You can deny it to your dying breath but you left me there in the flames! Allez vous faire foutre!'' Tiny droplets of saliva sprayed out as she cursed, raving. 

Just as suddenly, her temper vanished, replaced by calm. ''But I survived. I am very good at that.'' 

Rhiannon flinched again as that colorless regard turned to look at her. The woman was obviously insane, if functional; her pathological hatred of Lina was evident. Victoire reached out one hand to touch the strawberry blonde's cheek and was stopped when Lina grabbed her arm. Instantly, the Egyptian's fingers tightened on the triggers of their weapons, but Lina merely glared down at the Frenchwoman, her deadly glare conveying a silent message: ''Touch her and die.''

Victoire wrenched her arm from Lina's grasp and laughed again. ''Oh, but Evie! How sweet! My men told me you had a special relationship with this little whore, but I had no idea! Do you love her so very much, then?'' 

Rhiannon felt Lina's grip on her fingers tighten. ''My personal life is none of your concern, Vicky,'' the peer replied. 

Victoire repeated mockingly, ''None of my concern?'' Then her tone changed to one of utter seriousness. ''Hang them up. I have some questions for them and I don't want to wait long for answers.'' 

Lina started to struggle when several men took her by the arms, but a cocked pistol held to Rhiannon's head made her give in meekly. In moments, both women had been tied to ropes suspended from the ceiling, their arms extended above their heads, and the ropes tightened until they both balanced on the balls of their feet to ease the strain on their wrists. 

''Where is Doctor Forbes?'' Lina asked. 

Victoire put a finger to her lips and appeared to consider the question. ''Hmm, let me see... You mean that old leche-con?'' 

Lina flushed at this reference to Forbes as a 'cunt lapper.' ''I mean Doctor Angelica Forbes, Vicky. What have you done with her?'' 

Victoire put her head to one side. ''Oh, James?'' she caroled in an artificially sweet tone. ''What did you do with Doctor Forbes?'' 

Patterson looked up from his work, the loupe still screwed into one eye. ''Too old to be much of a threat,'' he replied, ''and I hit her pretty hard. I left her over there.'' He indicated a corner of the cavern with his head. 

The Frenchwoman barked out some Arabic words and two of the men stepped in the indicated direction with a pair of torches. In a moment, one of them said something to Victoire, who flushed angrily and whirled back to Patterson. 

''She's not there, you stupid bastard! She's gone!'' 

Patterson began to sputter an explanation while Victoire raged in a crazed mixture of English and gutter French. Rhiannon's calves were beginning to cramp and she eased down, allowing her weight to hang from her wrists for a moment. The harsh fibers of the rope bit into her flesh; she clamped her bottom lip between her teeth to stifle a whimper as fiery pain lanced down her arms. She got back up on her toes as soon as she could, her face sweaty. 

Lina had been pulling and twisting at her bonds until blood ran down her arms and dripped off her elbows to splatter on the floor. Every now and then she would look at Rhiannon, since Victoire had been kind enough (so she said) to tie them up facing one another, if separated by perhaps ten feet. When she did, her eyes flashed with fury and she redoubled her efforts, lips thinned and expression fiercely determined. 

Victoire finally finished screeching imprecations at Patterson and screamed some commands at the men, who vanished up the stairwell, leaving their torches behind. 

Taking several deep breaths and then smiling with shocking sweetness, Victoire said to the doctor, ''I've sent the men to search for her. She won't get far in the desert and the Cook's steamer left three hours ago. The only places she could go to get help are Cairo and Luxor, both of which are too distant for her to walk. By the time she returned here with assistance, our business would be finished.'' 

Patterson nodded, relieved, and wiped beads of sweat from his brow. ''I'm sorry, Victoire,'' he said, ''I thought she was unconscious.'' 

Victoire walked over and patted his round face with one hand. ''It's all right, James. We all make mistakes.'' Suddenly, her nails dug into the flesh of his cheek and he cried out as she drew blood. ''But don't do it again!'' the Frenchwoman hissed, stepping back and away. 

Patterson dabbed at his bloody cheek with his hand, whimpering, ''But I didn't mean...'' 

Victoire cut him off. ''We don't have time for this. Have you finished the translation?'' 

''Yes, but there's nothing new here as far as I can tell. Just a reference to Octavian, but we already knew we were dealing with Kleopatra.'' Patterson was clearly afraid of the Frenchwoman's reaction but Victoire nodded calmly. 

''Then we need the papyrus,'' she said. ''It's the key to this affair. Unless you're an incompetent fool, but we already knew that, didn't we, James?'' 

She overlooked Patterson's blush and walked back over to Lina and Rhiannon. ''Oh, Evie!'' she chuckled, ''What have you done to yourself? Tsk, tsk, tsk,'' she continued, running a finger through the blood trickling down Lina's arm and popping her finger into her mouth, sucking on it luxuriously while Rhiannon gagged. Then Victoire moved over to the smaller woman and considered her. 

''James,'' Victoire said, her expression suddenly feral. ''Leave off with the statue and come here.'' 

The doctor got up and crossed to the Frenchwoman's side. With one thumb, Victoire indicated Rhiannon. ''Any ideas?'' she asked with a wicked glint in her colorless eyes. 

Patterson licked his lips. ''Yessss,'' he hissed. ''Do I get to play?'' 

Victoire nodded, putting one arm around the man's shoulders and playfully licking his earlobe. ''As long as you don't damage her too much,'' she said in a seductive purr. ''Try not to leave too many marks, James. Be a good boy and play with the little whore; I'll ask my petite Evie a few questions while you have your fun.'' 

Rhiannon gulped as Patterson approached her, and Lina tried to kick him as he passed, but the doctor adroitly avoided the blow. ''Watch, Evie,'' Victoire said. ''I want to know where that papyrus is, or at least what it said. I know you had the Forbes bitch translate the document, so don't bother to deny it.'' 

''Why?'' Lina said through gritted teeth. ''Why hurt Rhiannon? She does not know anything! Come on, Vicky! Do your worst to me instead... or are you too much of a coward to face me?'' 

Victoire looked up into Lina's face and giggled. ''But Evie! That's too deliciously noble. Sacrificing yourself for your putain, I'm impressed. But you see, I know anything I do to her is bound to hurt you worse than anything I do to you. So, watch and listen, Evie. And don't close your eyes or I'll slice your eyelids off.'' 

A fresh thread of blood coursed down one of Lina's arms as she tried desperately to get free.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE 

As Patterson placed his hands on Rhiannon's blouse and tore it away, she said loudly, ''Don't tell them anything, Lina! I mean it! No matter what they do, don't tell them!'' 

''Don't touch her!'' Lina screamed, cords standing out in her neck. 

''Lina!'' Rhiannon said calmly, ''Don't tell them anything. Promise me!'' 

Lina stared, panting harshly, her green eyes incandescent with unthinking fury. ''If you hurt her,'' she said icily, ''I will kill you.'' The look on her face made this a sincere promise more than a threat. 

Patterson giggled and removed the rest of Rhiannon's clothing with a knife while the strawberry blonde stayed as still as she could, the feeling of cold steel against her flesh making her shudder. 

Her ice blue eyes met Lina's. ''Don't say anything, Lina. I'm begging you.'' She swallowed, fear threatening to overwhelm her. ''Not a word.'' 

Rhiannon didn't relish the idea of being tortured but she knew that if they submitted to Victoire's demands, the Frenchwoman would summarily kill them both, having no further use for them. ''Lina,'' Rhiannon repeated, ''Promise me.'' 

The muscles in Lina's jaws jumped as she furiously strove to tear her bonds away... and Victoire's silvery laugh echoed in her mind. ''No!'' she croaked, ''No! Don't touch her, you bastard!'' 

Rhiannon took a deep breath as Patterson ran a hand across her belly. ''Lina...they're going to torture me anyway. Look at Victoire.'' 

Desperately, the peer tore her eyes away from Rhiannon's and stared into the Frenchwoman's colorless orbs, and read the amusement there, as well as anticipation. A tiny smile was curved across Victoire's face and her eyes were intent upon her prey; she resembled nothing so much as a cat confronting an especially succulent mouse. 

''NOOOOOOOOOOO!'' Lina howled in sheer rage as Victoire said, ''She's right, you know. Oh, I know you'd tell me what I want to know to save your Rhiannon, but honestly, Evie - I'm going to enjoy your suffering far too much to let it end too quickly. But don't do anything yet, James. Let's anticipate the moment, shall we?'' 

Patterson nodded but continued to stroke his hand across Rhiannon's trembling flesh. 

Lina panted, striving to think. Come on, she said to herself, distract her! Say something!

''I thought I loved you once,'' she said. ''Now I know I was infatuated with an insane whore who sold herself for a few francs. When we made love, Vicky, did you really climax or was that acting, too?'' 

Victoire's face colored in fury and she raised her hand, then lowered it and chuckled. ''Ah, Evie, you're very clever! Trying to focus my attention on you by making me angry. It isn't going to work, and I'll even answer your question.'' 

She moved a little closer, staying out of range of Lina's legs; she knew about the peer's baritsu skills. ''As a matter of fact, I enjoyed our lovemaking very much. You were quite the talented pupil, cherie. So eager, so pathetically desperate for attention. I was quite amused.'' 

It was Lina's turn to flush. ''I see,'' she replied simply, although inwardly, she was maintaining a sort of calm only by gut-wrenching effort. The longer I keep this madwoman talking, she thought, the more time that will give Rhiannon. ''So who is this Jackal, Vicky? Your puppet-master?'' 

Victoire laughed. ''No, no, cherie! Haven't you figured it out by now? I am the Jackal.'' She looked proudly at the bound peer. ''Now who's the clever one?'' 

Lina nodded. Suddenly, a great many things made sense and she ignored a fierce cramp in her calf. ''You have been trying to kill us since we came to Cairo. You wanted the statue but you wanted revenge even more.'' 

''True!'' Victoire gave a chilling little smile. ''After my father rescued me from the indigent's hospital in Paris, he set me up in this little business. His only condition was that I avoid London and Paris. I've been waiting for you, Evie, waiting for my opportunity for years. I want to hurt you as you've hurt me; I want to see you beg; I want to DESTROY YOU!'' Her eyes blazed with insanity and madness as she screamed these last words at the peer. 

''And who is your father?'' Lina asked, shifting her pose to ease another cramp. 

''I believe you know him, or at least, of him,'' Victoire replied, her mercurial mood shifting again. ''Shall I give you a hint? Mais non, I think you don't want to play very much today. I'll tell you. My father is known to your Mr. Sherlock Holmes - his name is Professor James Moriarty.'' 

Lina bit back a gasp. That explained Holmes' false deduction; he had traced the Jackal connection to Moriarty but had not know the criminal genius had a daughter. 

''Shocking, isn't it?'' Victoire said. ''My mother was a prostitute in Marseilles. When she died, father came for me. He paid for my art school education and set me up with the forgery ring. After my accident, he sent me to Cairo to convalesce. He was very impressed by how quickly I managed to take over a small smuggling operation there, so he set me up in business for myself. I had to eliminate a few stubborn rivals, but today, I'm the reigning queen of the Egyptian underworld. Does that make you proud?'' 

Lina nodded; anything to keep Victoire talking. ''Why the statue? Why the papyrus? How did you learn about the treasure?'' 

''Oh...'' Victoire waved a hand airily. ''Why, it was James, of course! He discovered some obscure reference in a demotic text and was quick to bring it to my attention. We managed to piece together part of the story, enough to realize that there must be a treasure hidden somewhere in the Abydos tomb. It took a few weeks to discover the underground passage and then we were stymied. I had a wonderful time trying to decide what would happen first when you popped up in Cairo - your death or your involvement in this affair. You do have a way of making other people's business your own, cherie.'' 

''You were spying on us the entire time?'' 

''Yes, I was! You didn't make one move that I didn't know about. I have eyes everywhere in Egypt, Evie. We lack only one key to get into the treasure vault and I'm convinced that key is in the papyrus. Poor James is hardly the master of hieratic script and we couldn't take it to a legitimate source to be translated. I hoped you'd discover it on your own, and you did. James was surprised but I wasn't. I knew you'd keep flailing away at the problem until you solved it. Your stubbornness is one of your more endearing qualities.'' Victoire bestowed a falsely fond smile on the other woman. 

Lina ground her teeth together audibly, then forced herself to relax. ''Why go through this farce of harming Rhiannon?'' she asked. ''Whatever you want to know, I will tell you freely. Just let her go and do not injure her.'' 

Rhiannon started to protest, but at a nod from Victoire, Patterson viciously backhanded her. A sudden flare of rage swelled up, nearly choking Lina, but she managed to swallow her choler. 

Victoire's colorless eyes locked on the peer's face. ''You know why!'' she said tightly. ''I want to see you suffer! I'm going to have a lot of fun with your little bitch, and James is, too. And then we're going to have some more fun. In fact, I plan to play with her until she dies; afterwards, if you're lucky, Evie, I just might kill you, too.'' 

Her hands went to her blouse and she rapidly unbuttoned it. ''See?'' she screeched, flecks of saliva gathering at the corners of her lips. ''See what you did to me?'' She yanked both halves of her shirt apart and waited, lips twisted in a snarl. 

Lina's eyes widened in horror.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Victoire's torso was covered in thick masses of scar tissue. Only one breast remained relatively untouched; the other was an irregular lump that lacked even a nipple to identify it. The cable-like weals and roughly wrinkled patches snaked across her belly and disappeared beneath the waistband of her trousers. 

''There's more,'' the Frenchwoman said, pulling her shirt back together again, ''But I think I'll show you the rest later. Right now, James and I have some business to attend to.'' 

The Frenchwoman walked to Patterson's side and took the knife out of his hand. ''We want her to live for a good long time, remember, cher?'' She playfully tugged a lock of his hair and he winced. ''No blades. At least, not yet. Surely you can be creative enough with your hands...'' 

Lina began to speak rapidly. ''Do not do this, Vicky! I am begging you! I will do anything you want, anything! But do not hurt Rhiannon!'' 

Victoire smiled, then her hand darted out and she pinched one of Rhiannon's nipples hard, making the strawberry-blonde gasp and try to twist away. ''No, cherie,'' the Frenchwoman said, her eyes lighting up with sadistic glee. ''Do you think me fool enough to fall for your tricks?'' 

Lina said desperately, ''I give you my word, Vicky. Untie me... I will get down on my knees, I will grovel on my belly. I will do whatever you want. Please.... do not hurt her.'' 

Vicky pursed her lips and looked over her shoulder at the peer. ''Anything?'' she asked. 

Inwardly, Lina shuddered, but she remained firm in her resolve. No matter what humiliation Victoire might dream up, she would submit gratefully if only Rhiannon could be spared. ''Yes,'' she replied, refusing to look into her lover's eyes. ''Anything. You have my word.'' 

''And your word is your bond, yes?'' Victoire walked over to Lina and put both hands on the woman's hips. ''Would you kiss me, Evie? Would you make love to me, right here in front of your beloved? Would you fuck me with your tongue and make me squeal with delight?'' 

Swallowing, Lina said hoarsely, ''Yes. Just let her go, Vicky. Let her go and I will do anything you want.'' 

Rhiannon couldn't help but watch helplessly as Victoire stretched up on her toes and put her face close to Lina's. ''Kiss me, Evie,'' she said, putting her mouth on Lina's. 

Although completely disgusted, Lina kissed Victoire, even allowing the Frenchwoman's tongue to play with hers. When the kiss broke off, Lina was nearly trembling with the effort of suppressing her nausea. But if it saved Rhiannon, she was willing to submit to Victoire's perverse desires. 

Playing with a lock of Lina's dark hair, Victoire stared at her for a long moment, then leaned forward and clamped her teeth deeply into Lina's lower lip, drawing blood. It was painful, but Lina didn't flinch or try to draw away, not even when Victoire's tongue flicked out to lick the blood that trickled down her chin. 

Finally, Victoire stepped back. ''It's a tempting offer, cherie,'' she said, a hint of malicious humor glinting in her colorless eyes. ''But no. I think your little one here will be much more fun.'' 

With a sense of disbelief that turned rapidly into rage, Lina realized that Victoire had only been toying with her. ''You sadistic, heartless bitch!'' the peer choked, and Rhiannon flinched as Patterson laughed harshly and squeezed her thigh. 

Victoire giggled. ''Perhaps. But mind that you watch, ma belle. Or else...'' she patted the knife sheath that hung from her belt. 

Turning back to Patterson, she continued, ''Now, James - let's see how long it will take to make this pouffiasse scream.'' 

The doctor licked his dry lips. 

Rhiannon said breathlessly, ''Don't tell them anything, Lina! No matter what!'' 

And Lina, almost weeping with frustration and fury, yanked violently on the ropes that bound her wrists, the pain of the raw, bleeding flesh as nothing compared to the agony in her soul. 

Rhiannon tried to resist, tried not to show Lina how much she suffered, knowing that every movement she made, any sound she might emit, would only increase Lina's torture. And there were other reasons, besides. 

After a while, Victoire thoughtfully licked a drop of blood from her hand and said, ''She's more stubborn than I thought, cher. Let's put our heads together and be more imaginative.'' 

Patterson nodded eagerly, and the minutes seemed like hours as they slowly slipped away, eventually accompanied by the echoes of Rhiannon's first scream... and the ones that followed after. 

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Lina stared unseeing into the distance, her eyes glazed, panting lightly. She hung by her full weight from her mangled wrists; streaks of blood, both fresh and dried, covered her arms and spotted her shirtfront. 

Rhiannon, too, hung by her wrists, but she was unconscious. Her hair had come down and strands were stuck to her nude body; bruises bloomed on her flesh, her torso was covered with shallow cuts. Blood dripped slowly down her thighs, making a tiny puddle beneath her feet. 

Victoire and Patterson had gone to the back of the cavern, where a life-sized statue of the Egyptian god Anubis stood. Carved of some black stone, the jackal-headed figure held a golden spear in one hand, the other outstretched as if for an offering. 

Lina had screamed the details of the papyrus over and over again until her voice had given out and she could only croak hoarsely. It had not saved Rhiannon, and the longer the torture had continued, the more insanely the peer had struggled, until finally, when Rhiannon's head lolled forward and she slumped in a faint, Lina had stopped moving and stared, just as she was now, at nothing and no one. 

Their murmured voices floated back. ''So how is the statue the key?'' Victoire asked. 

''I don't know,'' Patterson replied. ''I suspect there is some sort of counter-balancing mechanism at work here. But if we guess incorrectly, the results will be disastrous.'' 

''Hmmm...'' Victoire glanced over her shoulder at the two women. ''The little one, she knows nothing. But Evie, she may have an idea or two. Go ask her, cher.'' 

Patterson snorted. ''She's gone mad, Victoire. Look at her! She won't be of any further use. Let's kill her now and get it over with.'' 

''Patience, James!'' Victoire patted his face, ignoring his wince as she painfully struck his scratches. ''Just go ask her. Threaten her whore again; that should be enough to snap her out of it.'' 

Patterson ran one hand through his blonde hair and with an exasperated sigh, walked over to the catatonic peer. 

''Hey!'' he said, poking Lina in the chest with a finger. ''I'm talking to you, your Ladyship! Don't look much like a grand lady now, do you?'' 

Lina stared through him, green eyes wide and glazed, her lips parted slightly as she took shallow breaths. 

Patterson poked her harder. ''Pay attention, slut! I know you can hear me. Look at me or I swear to God I'll cut your pretty girl's throat!'' 

Slowly, Lina's eyes focused on Patterson's round face. He grinned. ''That got your attention, didn't it?'' He casually unbuttoned Lina's shirt and fondled one of her breasts. ''Maybe Victoire'll let me play with you, too. I'd like that. I bet you've never had a cock before, have you? You tribades are all the same; what you need is a real man to show you what sex is really about. I bet you'd squeal like a stoat! I've heard stories about you fine ladies, you know.'' 

Lina didn't answer, merely stared. 

Victoire, who had been listening with half an ear, suddenly turned around. ''James!'' she cried, ''Don't!'' 

Patterson turned his head to flash his grin at the Frenchwoman - and in that moment, Lina struck. 

Her legs shot up around the doctor's pudgy neck, ankles crossed, squeezing his throat with her powerful thigh muscles. Patterson choked, his hands coming up to scrabble at Lina's trousers as her hands clamped around the rope to support her weight, ice-cold hatred turning her eyes into glittering emerald frost. 

Patterson staggered, his eyes bulging, trying to get away, but Lina's grip never faltered. Even as Victoire ran across the cavern, there was a sickening crack as the peer twisted her body, snapping the doctor's neck like a green twig. He fell convulsing to the floor, his bowels releasing in a flood of foulness as Lina let him drop and stood on his twitching face, panting with effort. 

Victoire stopped dead. ''Oh, Evie,'' she said mournfully. ''Why did you do that?'' She considered the scene a moment, then giggled. ''You know, the stink is going to be terrible before too long; there's little air circulation down here.'' 

Lina looked down at Patterson's body, her nostrils pinched and white, then her glacial gaze swung up to take in her former lover. ''Come a little closer, Vicky,'' she rasped, ''I will be happy to make sure you will never be troubled by a little stench again.'' 

''I'm sure.'' Victoire giggled again. ''No matter. More for me, then. I will miss him, though, perhaps a little. He was fairly decent in bed, you know - even if he had a tiny kiquette - but he more than made up for it in imagination.'' 

''Spare me the details,'' Lina growled. ''I am going to kill you, Vicky. On that, you have my word.'' 

Victoire chuckled, then began howling with laughter, pounding her knees and clutching her ribs as she gave in to the uncontrollable fit of hilarity. Finally, though, she stopped, hiccuping and wiping away tears. ''Oh, Evie,'' she said, ''That's so sweet of you!'' She began to giggle, then stopped with an effort. ''Don't fear, cherie. I will outlive you; this I know.'' 

Victoire blew a kiss to the dead Patterson, then crossed the cavern to study the statue again. 

Rhiannon woke up and nearly cried out. Her wrists were twin flares of agony; other aches and pains, from the dull throb between her legs to the razor-sharp threads of fire that criss-crossed her chest, made it an effort to keep silent. Tears filled her pale blue eyes, and she looked up at Lina, struggling to regain her feet. 

Lina looked at Rhiannon helplessly. ''I am so sorry, my dear,'' she said, tears welling up in her own eyes. ''I tried...'' 

Rhiannon looked Lina's wrists, at the blood that covered her arms, and whispered, ''I know.'' Her gaze traveled down. ''Patterson?'' she asked as she finally managed to get back up on her toes. 

''Yes.'' 

''What about Victoire?'' Rhiannon swayed in place, her knees wobbling. 

''Not yet, my dear. But I swear to you: I will kill her for what she did to you.'' 

Rhiannon focused on Lina, and suddenly realized the peer's shirt was unbuttoned. ''Did he...?,'' she began to ask, then stopped. 

Lina shook her head. 

They looked at each other for a long moment, each assessing the other's injuries; Lina with a growing sense of wrath, and Rhiannon wanting desperately to both weep and choke the life out of Victoire with her bare hands. Then, Rhiannon was startled to hear a barely detectable noise from behind - the soft scrape of a bootheel on the stony floor. 

A voice spoke into her ear so softly she could hardly make it out. ''I am here,'' the voice said, ''And I have brought reinforcements. Can you hang on a little longer? It will take time to prepare for an assault.'' 

Rhiannon's heart beat faster. It was Holmes! She casually nodded her head, catching Lina's eye and mouthing the detective's name. The peer nodded as well, her eyes searching the semi-darkness. 

After a minute, Rhiannon whispered, ''Holmes?'' But there was no reply; he had obviously gone. 

Hope began to make the strawberry blonde's blood sing. She had utter faith in Holmes; she knew he would manage, somehow, to effect a rescue. 

Victoire crossed to the Anubis figure, Rhiannon's statue in her hand. Suddenly, she let out a crow of laughter. ''Of course!'' she cried, ''It's so simple!'' 

Turning to her captives, the Frenchwoman said excitedly, ''The papyrus was part of the key but it all fits together. See?'' She held the statue up and pointed at the tiny circlet of steel that held back the onyx warrior's hair. ''Eternal lovers... in many cultures, the symbol for infinity or eternity is a circle. And 'rewarded in death not in life' means that the Anubis figure is part of it all.The guardian, so to speak'' She grinned happily. ''I know what I need to do now. But don't be impatient, mes amis. Just as soon as I take a look at my treasure, I won't need you anymore. Enjoy each other's company until I return.'' 

With a triumphant air, Victoire plucked the steel circlet from the statue and dropped it into the Anubis figure's hand. There was a high-pitched whine followed by a deep grating as the figure's hand sank down, down, down... and a section of the wall behind it slowly rose up. 

Victoire's silvery laugh filled the cavern as she snatched up a torch and entered the dark doorway.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Victoire trilled a happy song, surveying her new acquisition. The small room was filled with treasures of silver and gold; carved alabaster boxes spilled out strings of jewels and semi-precious beads, gilded statues reared, elaborately worked necklaces, bracelets, headpieces, rings and earrings glittered in the torchlight. There were even stacks of gold bars, mingled with other bars of silver and that blend of silver and gold called electrum. It would take a lifetime to catalog all these treasures, but the Frenchwoman was not interested in the collection as an archaeological find. 

She ran a greedy hand through an open box that had been carved into the shape of a gape-mouthed hippopotamus, letting the cool gems slide between her fingers. With a merry giggle, she began to spin in place, absolutely giddy with delight. 

Lina waited impatiently. ''Where the Devil is he?'' she asked quietly, although frustration was evident in her tone. ''What is taking so long?'' 

Suddenly, shouts and wild ululations, accompanied by sporadic gunfire, could be heard coming faintly from the top of the stairwell. ''That must be Holmes!'' Lina said, exchanging a look of triumph with her wife. 

A hand grabbed Rhiannon's rope and began sawing at it with a knife. ''I apologize for my tardiness,'' Holmes said. This time, Lina could see him. The saturnine man wore the dark blue robes and turban of a nomadic Bedouin, complete in each detail save that his face was unveiled in defiance of custom. 

''Hurry up, Holmes!'' Lina hissed, tugging her bonds lightly and ignoring the pain of her bloody, swollen wrists. ''Cut me loose!'' 

Holmes finished cutting through Rhiannon's rope and caught her as she slumped over, laying her gently on the ground. He removed the remnants that were wrapped around the small woman's wrists, pitching them away with a scowl. Then, he rose and standing face to face with Lina, began to work on her own rope. 

''I meant to follow the two of you at a discreet distance,'' Holmes said softly, his breath puffing into Lina's face. ''I was disguised as a porter. However, I neglected to inform an old friend that I was in Egypt and my plans went awry.'' 

''Tell me later, Holmes!'' Lina almost shouted in an agony of impatience, hastily lowering her tone at Holmes' scowl. ''Just cut!'' 

In a matter of moments, Holmes had the peer freed. Lina nearly sank to her knees when the excruciating burn of blood flowing back into her hands made her bite her lip to keep from crying out. Holmes hastily massaged the peer's hands, wincing at the condition of her wrists. 

Rhiannon managed to prop herself up on one elbow. ''Did you bring my staff?'' she asked. 

''Yes,'' Holmes replied shortly. At Lina's nod, he went over to the other woman and squatting down, began massaging her hands to help restore circulation. ''It is over there, against that wall.'' Quickly, the detective whipped a loose robe out of the folds of his own costume and pulled it over Rhiannon's head. 

''I take it you have arranged for a diversion of some sort?'' Lina asked, pounding one of her calves with a fist to beat out a cramp. 

''Yes. There is, however, no time for details.'' Holmes' gaze flickered to the corpse on the floor. ''Patterson?'' he asked. 

Lina nodded. ''That bastard - he was one of the sources of Rhiannon's injuries,'' she replied tightly. ''And now I am going to see to the other one.'' She rose unsteadily, clenching her jaw and forcing quivering muscles to respond. 

Holmes opened his mouth to protest... but closed it again when all Hell broke loose. 

A swarm of shrieking Egyptians stumbled down the stairwell, engaged in battle with sword-wielding Bedouins. As the fight swirled into the cavern, Lina picked one of the men who was not a nomad and with casual skill, powerfully lashed out one leg, toes pointed like a dagger, straight into his chest. 

The man fell without a sound, his heart burst like a ripe tomato behind his shattered rib cage, and Lina bent over and grabbed his sword. Hefting it with a fierce grin, she ran across the cavern, all injuries forgotten in the heady flush of anticipated revenge, disappearing through the secret doorway. 

Rhiannon got to her feet with Holmes' help and snatched her staff clumsily from its resting place. Although her hands were not quite steady, she thumbed the hidden catch, releasing the spearpoint, and when the first Egyptian howled and came at her with an upraised sword, she neatly sliced through his throat, then brought the staff around to plunge it into his belly. 

He dropped, a spray of blood catching Rhiannon in the face. She wiped it off with the back of her hand and placed a foot on the body, yanking the staff out. A familiar voice called, ''Well done, Miss Rhiannon!'' 

Although sickened but sternly reminding herself of the necessity, Rhiannon turned around, blocking a sword, and beheld Solange. The maid was dressed head to toe in a tight-fitting black trouser costume, her slim figure clearly detailed. A knife in each hand, she spun and twirled gracefully, her deadly daggers finding their mark in throat, eyes, thigh and stomach. 

Holmes panted at Rhiannon's side, ''I took the liberty of inviting Miss Solange to our soiree.'' Slim sword at the ready, the detective fouled his opponent's weapon with the cloak he held in one hand, then swiftly dispatched the enemy with an economy of motion that was astonishing. 

A chilling howl of canine rage filled the cavern, and Rhiannon, wondering a little at her inhuman calm in the midst of this blood-drenched madness, dispatched another Egyptian to Allah and noted that her wolfhound Fyvie was there as well. The enormous dog rose up, clamping her jaws on a shrieking man's face and pulling him down. She shook him, growling horribly, and there was a crunch as his skull gave way. 

Between the Bedouins and the Europeans, the Egyptians were clearly outmatched, in skill if not in numbers; the nomads had forced them by trickery to empty their guns of ammunition and fall back on more traditional weaponry. But there was no time to think, no time to consider, as Rhiannon defended herself and her friends with the skills she had practiced but never really put into use, allowing the reflexes that had been drilled into her to take over, guiding her almost exhausted body with grace and lethal precision. 

Suddenly, Lina's voice rose above the shouts and screams of the fighters. Rhiannon whirled around and beheld lover wife exiting the doorway. Victoire was in front of her, a sword in her own hand, and the two women exchanged blows with consummate skill, sparks striking from the steel they both held. 

A stunning blow to her back made Rhiannon fall to her knees, gasping for breath, staff falling from nerveless fingers. The Egyptian behind her grinned, teeth flashing through his beard, and raised his sword with a shouted, ''Bismillah!'' 

Rhiannon fumbled for her staff but it had rolled beyond her reach, and she was helpless to respond. 

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Rhiannon squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the stroke that would end her life... Goodbye, Lina, she whispered in her mind. I love you.

After a moment, however, when the anticipated deathblow didn't come, she opened her eyes again and looked over her shoulder. The Egyptian swayed in place, sword dropping with a clang, then fell over heavily. Rhiannon saw a dagger hilt standing out in the back of his neck, as well as Holmes' thin sword piercing through to his heart. 

Solange skidded to a halt beside Rhiannon. ''Are you all right?'' she asked, offering a hand and helping the other woman to her feet. The maid/assassin poked the dead Egyptian with one toe. ''That one was dead twice over. But where is Holmes? I saw him throw his rapier; the Monsieur has very good aim,'' she concluded with the air of a professional praising an inspired amateur. 

They both looked over the melee and quickly saw the detective, who had re-armed himself with an enormous half-moon shaped sword, wreaking havoc. He appeared to be suffering no injuries, so Rhiannon tore her eyes away from him and searched for Lina. 

The peer, lips stretched in a bloodthirsty grin, was hammering blow after blow down on Victoire, who had her own sword clutched in both hands and was frantically parrying. It was clear, however, that the Frenchwoman would soon be defeated; she was growing tired, while Lina seemed indefatigable, unstoppable, a titanic goddess glowing with righteous wrath. 

Rhiannon bent over and grabbed her staff again, then waded through the fight, blocking unconsciously and answering threats with unthinking savagery. Her sole thought was to get to Lina's side as quickly as possible; everything else, including pain, was swallowed up in this concern. 

Suddenly, Lina staggered back, clutching her side. 

A patch of dark red blood blossomed on her ripped shirt and Victoire waved a little knife at her, colorless eyes blazing with anticipated victory. ''Did you really think I'd answer that ridiculous challenge of yours, cherie?'' she asked mockingly, advancing with her sword held at the ready. ''You really are suicidally honorable. Telling me to pick up a sword to defend myself...'' Her head bobbed back and forth like a snake's as she considered the peer. ''You should know by now that I don't play fair. You should have killed me when you had the chance.'' 

Lina hissed through her teeth, forcing her hand to clamp down on her sword's hilt. If she dropped it, there would be no chance at all. She wasn't sure how deeply she had been cut but she could feel the pulsing of blood against the palm of her other hand. She would have time for only one final move... 

Victoire's tongue flickered over her lips. ''I've been waiting for this a long time, cherie. Of course, I would rather burn you alive,'' she said matter-of-factly with a shrug, ''but as long as you're dead, I'll be happy.'' 

Lina gasped, ''Save your breath for fighting,'' and raised her sword, the point quivering as her hand trembled. 

Victoire gave her an evil smile. ''You should save your breath for praying,'' she said. Her sword darted forward, aimed at Lina's vulnerable throat. 

Lina knew she wouldn't be able to get her weapon up in time but tried anyway, her only regret that she wouldn't be able to tell Rhiannon goodbye. 

But the blow never came. A staff lashed out, striking Victoire's blade upward, and Rhiannon was there, her robe spotted with blood, bare feet planted firmly on the stone floor, a look of absolute determination on her face even as she panted with effort. 

Victoire cursed, then in a lightning move, flipped the sword to her other hand and struck out, hitting Rhiannon hard across the face. She fell to the ground heavily without so much as a grunt, the spearpoint of the staff chiming like a bell as it rolled along the floor, a wealth of dirty hair covering her face. 

Victoire turned back to Lina with a smile - a smile that faltered as the peer roared with rage, eyes narrowing into hate-filled slits, and lunged forward, her sword dropping to the ground, hands outstretched, her only conscious thought a consummate desire to fix her hands around her enemy's throat. 

The Frenchwoman swung her sword but already Lina was too close and contemptuously blocked the feeble blow with a forearm. Frantically, Victoire began back-pedaling, trying to get some distance, but the enraged peer stayed close, dodging sword strikes or blocking them. 

Finally, Victoire raised the sword above her head and swung down with all her might, hoping this desperation blow would split Lina's head like a melon. But to her astonishment and shock, Lina caught the blade between her palms, muscles standing out in her arms; the steel actually whined under the stress. 

Victoire nearly wept with frustration and tried to yank the sword away, but Lina held it there, staring down at the other woman. With a tiny smile, the peer snapped her hands to the right and the blade shattered in half. Victoire gaped at the uselessly splintered remains... then flung the hilt into Lina's face and dashed towards the stairway. 

Lina started to go after her, but was stopped by a soft moan. Rhiannon! All thoughts of revenge vanished with that quiet sound that ripped through her heart, and she quickly turned back. 

The peer knelt down beside her lover and gently smoothed the hair away from her face. Lina's heart thumped as she realized that Victoire had hit Rhiannon with the flat of the blade, not the edge; although the smaller woman most likely had a broken nose - even as she watched it was swelling - but Rhiannon was alive. 

''Lina?'' Rhiannon opened her eyes a crack and looked up at the beaming peer. ''I have the worst headache.'' 

With a sob that was half laughter, half tears, Lina gathered Rhiannon to her breast and held her, trying to be careful of the other woman's wounds. ''You will be fine, my dear,'' Lina said, crying with relief. ''You will be just fine.'' 

Rhiannon's hand stole up to stroke Lina's dark hair. ''Victoire... is she...?'' 

Lina looked into her wife's face and tenderly kissed her cheek. ''No, my dear. Not yet.'' Her expression hardened. ''But I promise you - she will not go unpunished.'' 

Rhiannon sighed. ''Help me up,'' she said. 

''But my dear! Just lie here; the fight is nearly over. Most of the Egyptians are dead or surrendered. Those few who are left will be easily dispatched by Holmes' Bedouins.'' Lina looked at Rhiannon anxiously. ''You have been hurt, sweetheart. Rest a little while.'' 

''No. Help me up,'' Rhiannon repeated stubbornly, ''And give me my staff.'' She began to struggle, so Lina reluctantly helped her to stand and kept an arm around her waist to support her, the peer's other hand clamped to her own side to keep the bleeding of her knife wound in check. 

''Leave the staff for now, my dear. You will not need it and it can be retrieved later.'' 

Rhiannon rested her head against Lina's chest, both arms around her lover's waist. ''I want it. Give it to me.'' She released her grip and stood on her own feet, swaying a little in place. 

Leaving her wife to stand alone, Lina bent down with a grunt to snatch the staff from the floor, noting only half-consciously that the Bedouins, at Holmes' direction, had begun tying up the prisoners. The battle was over. 

Turning back to Rhiannon, Lina started to say something, but was interrupted by a howl of purely malevolent triumph. 

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

"You're all going to die!,'' Victoire screamed from her position on the stairs. ''All of you!'' 

The Bedouins stared up at the Frenchwoman. Her platinum blonde hair, encrusted with dirt and blood, stood up in quiffs around her face, and those colorless eyes were filled with the light of intense insanity. Tucked into the waistband of her trousers was a bundle of sticks that Lina realized with a sense of shock was dynamite; in her hands she held a box of lucifers, one match poised to strike. 

''Thought you had me, didn't you, Evie?'' Victoire mocked. ''Thought you'd made me run. But I'll have the last laugh, cherie! That'll be the final thing you hear, right before you and your precious putain are buried alive!'' 

Lina tightened her grip on the staff and shifted her position slightly. If she had a chance, she would try and throw the weapon like a spear and pray that her aim was true. 

Rhiannon, exhausted from blood loss, pain and exertion, sank to the floor and could only gaze dully at the madwoman on the stairs. 

Victoire giggled and struck the match. It flared up with a sizzle and she touched the flame to the dynamite fuse, watching it spark with wide eyes and a fixed smile. 

Removing the bundle from her trousers, she hefted it in one hand. ''You really should thank me, Evie. After all, I'm letting you and Rhiannon die together. Perhaps there'll even be time for a tender moment or two before you take your last breath together.'' 

Lina's muscles were tensed as she calculated the distance between herself and Victoire. Her hand slid along the shaft until it felt balanced; rising up on the balls of her feet, she prepared to throw... 

And Victoire suddenly jerked forward violently, the dynamite falling from her hands; she toppled forward, rolling bonelessly down the stairs to land in a heap at the bottom. 

Strong, tanned hands reached down and pinched out the fuse. 

Lina let go of the staff and shouted, ''Prickles!'' 

The archaeologist waved one hand. Although her face was bruised and one eye swollen nearly shut, she appeared to be in fairly good condition. ''And a hearty good morning to you, too,'' she called back, carefully walking down the stairs, limping slightly. 

Lina turned back and saw Rhiannon huddled on the floor. Going to her, the peer knelt down and said, ''It is over, my dear. We will get you to a doctor as quickly as possible.'' Her eyes were filled with concern. 

Rhiannon nodded weakly. ''Sleepy,'' she murmured. 

''Stay awake, sweetheart,'' Lina said firmly. ''Keep talking to me.'' 

But Rhiannon closed her eyes, surrendering to the darkness of oblivion, the last thing she heard was Lina's voice raised in a frantic shout, ''Prickles! Holmes! Help me!!'' 

And then there was only silence.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Rhiannon woke up slowly, eyes fluttering as they adjusted to the sunlight that streamed into... the tent? 

She opened her eyes fully and glanced around. She lay on a low platform that had been heaped with soft mattresses and blankets. Beneath the light coverlet, she was nude. 

Laying back with a small sigh, Rhiannon carefully felt her body, taking in the swathed bandages that covered her torso. A sense of fullness between her thighs told her she'd been packed with something to absorb the blood. Her face ached; in fact, her entire body felt as if it were one large bruise. 

Lina's face swam into view as she sat down on the edge of the bed. ''How do you feel, my dear?'' she asked anxiously. 

Rhiannon made a face and whispered, ''Ouch!'' when that gesture hurt, too. ''I'm alive,'' she rasped quietly, her throat almost too dry for speech. ''That's about the best I can say right now.'' 

Lina nodded, sliding an arm beneath her lover's shoulders and helping her sit up. A brass cup filled with water was pressed to her lips and Rhiannon drank thirstily, then allowed herself to be gently placed back down on the bed. 

''What happened?'' Rhiannon asked. ''I remember Doctor Forbes turning up...''' 

''Well, as to that,'' Lina replied, ''Prickles knocked Victoire unconscious and rendered the dynamite hors de combat. It seemed she was shamming her faint earlier; although Patterson struck hard, our Prickles has a head as solidly strong as a cannonball. She twisted her ankle slightly falling down the stairs and has quite a collection of bruises, but she is fine.'' 

Rhiannon gave her wife a tired little smile. ''I'm glad she's all right,'' she murmured. ''What about you? I seem to recall you were hurt, too.'' 

Lina sighed. ''I am fine, my dear. A few stitches quickly put me to rights. It was you I was concerned about.'' She gestured and Rhiannon saw the thick bandages that were wrapped around both of Lina's wrists. 

Rhiannon put her hand on Lina's thigh and squeezed gently. ''Are you sure?'' she asked. 

''Quite sure,'' Lina replied, ''although I am certain you will not be satisfied until you have examined the injury yourself.'' She pulled her shirt out of the waistband of her trousers and showed Rhiannon the large bandage that was fastened with sticking plaster to her side. ''Prickles did the stitching herself; she has a neat hand and a light touch.'' 

Rhiannon carefully put on hand against the bandage. ''You were bleeding terribly. Are you sure you're all right?'' 

Lina chuckled. ''Yes, my dear,'' she said, leaning forward and kissing the other woman's lips lightly. ''I am sure. You were the worst injured of the lot.'' Abruptly, her face darkened. ''Patterson got off lightly indeed. I would rather have liked to have made him suffer as you did.'' 

''No, you don't,'' Rhiannon said. ''You don't have the stomach for torture, love. You're too decent and honorable a person. I can't say I'm not glad he's dead, though.'' 

With an effort, Lina smiled and patted Rhiannon's hand. ''You just lie there and rest, my dear. I have a few things to attend to and I will return as quickly as I can.'' 

''But Lina, I have so much to ask...'' 

''Not now, sweetheart.'' Lina rose abruptly and left the tent, calling back over her shoulder in a hard tone, ''Sleep, Rhiannon. I promise I will return shortly.'' 

Rhiannon stared after her lover and a tear slowly trickled down one cheek. She can't stand the sight of me, Rhiannon thought sadly. What Patterson and Victoire did to me was terrible, but not nearly as terrible as losing my Lina. She watched while they hurt me, and now she can't bear to touch me, or even talk to me.

Turning over on her side and ignoring the flare of pain, Rhiannon buried her face into the pillow and wept quietly. 

Lina breathed in hoarse gasps, hands clenched into fists. Forbes, a look of intense concern on her face, rubbed the straining peer's back and murmured, ''Let it go, child. Just let it go.'' 

Lina shook and bit back the howl of rage that threatened to burst out of her throat. With agonizing slowness, she regained control and stood up straight, wincing as the stitches in her side pulled painfully. Her face was beaded with sweat. ''I wish you hadn't stopped me from killing her,'' she said bleakly. 

Forbes sighed and scrubbed her spiky hair with one hand. Her eye was still swollen, but not nearly as grotesquely as it had been. ''Would it have changed anything if I hadn't?'' she asked. 

Lina considered. ''Yes. No. Perhaps. I do not know, Prickles!'' she almost shouted, then lowered her voice. ''All I know is that every time I look at Rhiannon, I see Victoire's face, hear her laughter... and it drives me nearly mad with fury. I want so very badly to take that bitch's throat between my hands and squeeze the life out of her - preferably as slowly as possible.'' 

Forbes placed a hand on Lina's broad shoulder. ''Evie,'' she said calmly, ''I can certainly understand your anger and frustration. Your lover was harmed, right in front of you, and you were helpless to prevent it. I think the problem is not Rhiannon or Victoire; I think the problem is yourself.'' 

Lina stared down at Forbes. ''What the Devil are you talking about, Prickles?'' she demanded angrily. 

Motioning Lina over to a firepit, Forbes took a seat and put an arm around the taller woman's shoulders when she sat down next to the archaeologist. ''My child, I have lived for some time longer than you have, and while I can't claim to have the world's wisdom at my fingertips, I have learned a thing or two. Will you listen to your old teacher and take her advice?'' 

Lina nodded, listening. Forbes had never lied to her, never evaded a hard question, and her pursuit of answers was legendary. If there was anything she could do to help stop up the raging abyss that tore apart her soul whenever she thought of her beloved wife, screaming in agony as they hurt her... 

Forbes continued, light brown eyes staring intently into Lina's face. ''Victoire was once your lover, correct?'' When Lina nodded, she said, ''And you believed you were in love with her?'' Again, the peer nodded. ''I've heard about what happened in Paris, Evie. You tried to drink yourself to death out of misplaced guilt when you thought Victoire was dead.'' 

Lina flushed. ''Yes. And it is one of the more humiliating episodes in my past, and one of which I am deeply ashamed,'' she said. 

Forbes squeezed Lina's shoulder. ''Now then - years later, Victoire, whom you believed to be dead, turns up like the proverbial bad shilling. Lo and behold! She has resumed her criminal career. She tried a number of times to assassinate you and Rhiannon, finally taking the two of you prisoner through no fault of your own. Have I stated the case correctly thus far?'' 

Lina sighed and clasped her hands together loosely. ''Yes,'' she replied simply. 

''And then - well, I'm not cognizant of all the details, you haven't spoken about it, but if you will recall, I assisted you in tending to Rhiannon's wounds.'' Forbes cleared her throat. ''Like your friend, Mr. Holmes, I can deduce much from the evidence at hand.'' 

Lina nodded, her lips thinning. 

''You could do nothing to prevent it. I'm willing to wager that you felt rather as you did when Victoire plunged into the flames - guilty, filled with self-hatred and self-recrimination, telling yourself that the entire affair was your fault.'' 

Lina was startled and her eyes flew up to meet Forbes'. ''Rot!'' she spat after a moment, ''Utter nonsense! I...'' She paused as unwelcome recollection thrust itself into her regard and she began examining both the past and present. 

After reflecting in silence for several long minutes, Lina sighed and leaned against Forbes. ''I... I could not save her,'' she said softly. ''Mea culpa. Had it not been for me, my dearest Rhiannon would not have been hurt, would not have suffered so terribly.'' 

Forbes grimaced. ''Allow me to quote you, my child - Rot! Utter nonsense!'' She patted Lina's clasped hands. ''Rhiannon is a grown woman. Having lived with you this past year, I've no doubt she fully understands the dangerous situations you are sometimes forced to deal with. As I did not see a gun to her head when the two of you visited my camp, I can only assume that she accompanied you willingly, knowing the risks but willing to accept them.'' 

Lina's eyes filled with tears. ''How can I face her?'' she moaned. ''How can I even touch her, knowing what she went through for my sake?'' 

''She needs you, Evie. Now more than ever. So stop all this self-indulgent behavior... yes, you heard me,'' the archaeologist said forcefully when Lina shook her head, ''I said self-indulgent. What happened, happened. Neither of you could have prevented it, therefore, all this guilt business is merely an exercise in your ridiculous need to be responsible for everything and everyone. Have you stopped to consider how Rhiannon must feel right now?'' 

''She must hate me,'' Lina said thickly. 

Exasperated, Forbes grabbed Lina's chin and forced her face around, staring angrily into her teary green eyes. ''You are impossible!,'' she retorted. ''Listen to me, Evie... Rhiannon is old enough to make her own decisions. You do not own her. She is her own woman; a beautiful, intelligent woman who, through some miracle, has chosen you as her lover and mate. How can you sit there and tell me she hates you? Child, she loves you; even an old warhorse like myself can see that. Every time she looks at you, she practically glows. Now, stop all this nonsense at once! Victoire is in prison in Cairo, where she will remain for the rest of her miserable life; Patterson is dead. There is nothing for you to feel guilty about! Not only did you make the archaeological find of the century, but you solved not one, but two mysteries, broke up a smuggling ring, stopped the career of a master criminal and you have the gall to sit there and feel guilty? Feh!'' 

Lina had listened to this speech and sat quietly for a moment. ''True,'' she replied slowly, ''We accomplished a great deal. But I tell you, Prickles, I would gladly turn back the clock and allow Victoire to continue her career unchecked if I could save Rhiannon from all that pain.'' 

Forbes sighed. ''Regret is all very well and good, Evie, but you need to remember something. At the moment, Rhiannon doesn't need a self-flagellating, mooning idiot; she needs a strong, supportive wife. Honestly, you are quite the most selfish person I know.'' 

These words stung and Lina opened her mouth to protest, but closed it again with she realized that her former teacher was correct. She had been acting the perfect fool, wallowing in misplaced guilt when her beloved Rhiannon needed her. Suddenly, it was as if the invisible but tight chains that had been wrapped around her heart loosened; she felt as if an enormous weight had been lifted off her and she took a deep breath. 

''You are right,'' Lina said, looking down at her hands then back at Forbes. ''She needs me.'' She sighed. ''I would still like to kill Victoire for what she did, Prickles, but... well, why continue to allow that bitch to harm me and mine?'' 

Forbes smiled, her eyes crinkling up in a nest of wrinkles. ''Brava!'' she said. ''Finally, you get the point! I was beginning to think you'd gone thick on me, Evie. Let Victoire go; don't continue to carry her around on your back like a bloody hundred-pound burden. She is being adequately punished for her crimes; no need to punish yourself, too.'' 

Forbes released Lina's shoulder and stood, nudging the other woman's leg with her foot. ''Now get up and go to your wife, young idiot! She requires a great deal of care at the moment, and while you've been indulging yourself, she's been all alone.'' 

Lina rose hastily. ''I am going,'' she said, hesitating. Finally, she wrapped her arms around the startled Forbes and hugged her tightly. ''Thank you, Angelica,'' the peer said, then released the archaeologist and hastened away in the direction of Rhiannon's tent. 

Forbes sighed and watched her go, then sat back down again to poke moodily at the remains of the fire with a stick. She pulled the bow-and-arrow necklace from beneath her shirt and stared at it in silence a long while, turning it over in her hands, whispering once in a tone of deepest sorrow, ''Diana, my lost love. Where are you when I need you, hmmm?'' 

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

"Rhiannon?'' 

Lina entered the tent and saw her wife laying in bed, the tracks of tears on her cheeks. ''Oh, my dear!'' she breathed, hurrying over to sink down on the edge of the bed. Her hands gently grasped Rhiannon's shoulders. ''What is it? Are you in pain? Wait - I will fetch the doctor.'' 

She started to rise but was interrupted by Rhiannon's strangled, ''No!'' 

Sitting back down, Lina looked into her lover's face. Both of Rhiannon's eyes were blackened, her nose swollen but less than it had been; the doctor had set the break but for the rest of her life her nose would be ever so slightly askew. ''What is it, my dear?'' the peer repeated. 

Rhiannon heaved for breath, struggling against the gnawing pain in her heart. She finally managed to gasp out, ''Hold me,'' and whimpered, waiting for the rejection she felt was inevitable. 

Lina carefully slid into the bed and gathered Rhiannon against her, cradling the other woman gently. To her astonishment and shock, Rhiannon clutched her desperately and burst into tears. 

''What is wrong, my dear?,'' Lina asked, smoothing Rhiannon's back with one hand. ''Tell me.'' 

''I... I... I thought you hated me,'' Rhiannon sobbed. 

Lina's eyes widened. ''Hated you? Why on earth should I...'' She stopped speaking and gathered her lover closer, resting her chin on the top of Rhiannon's head. ''No, my dear. I love you. I will always love you.'' Lina realized that her abrupt departure earlier must have made her now fragile love feel rejected. ''I am so very dreadfully sorry. I did not mean to hurt you before.'' 

The feeling of the strong arms she loved holding her closely, the heartbeat throbbing beneath her ear, the familiar scent of her wife made Rhiannon cry even harder, but this time in relief. ''I thought you couldn't stand the sight of me... b-b-because of what they did...,'' she gasped. 

Lina said hastily, ''Oh, no, my dear! Not at all! Please don't cry.'' The peer was close to tears herself. ''I love you, Rhiannon. Nothing will change that. Nothing.'' 

Rhiannon cried a bit more while Lina held her, rubbing her back and rocking her gently. Finally, the storm abated somewhat, and Rhiannon looked up, snuffling. ''I could endure what they did to me, love; I just couldn't stand the thought of losing you. I thought you considered me - well, damaged goods, so to speak.'' 

Lina pulled out a handkerchief and carefully wiped the other woman's face, then held it so she could blow her nose. ''Not at all!'' she said vehemently. ''I have been whipping myself over what happened, my dear. I felt it was my fault entirely and I have been struggling with a guilty conscience.'' 

Rhiannon's ice blue eyes were slightly bloodshot. ''But why?'' she asked, wincing a little at the pain of her swollen nose. ''There was nothing you could do.'' 

''I know.'' Lina tossed the handkerchief down and stroked Rhiannon's hair. ''But I felt to blame for allowing you to be caught in all this mess.'' When her wife opened her mouth to protest, Lina continued hastily, ''But I see now that I was behaving like an ass. As usual.'' 

Rhiannon smiled slightly. ''Well, I love you anyway,'' she said, snuggling her head into the crook of Lina's shoulder. ''Tell me about it.'' 

Lina gave her wife an account of Prickle's conversation with her, then added, ''And she was right, you know. I was behaving with appalling selfishness. Mind you, if she hadn't stopped me, I would have killed Victoire without mercy and considered it a job well done.'' 

Rhiannon sighed. ''Love,'' she said, ''Believe me. I had far worse happen to me when I was a prostitute in Whitechapel. Some of my gentlemen clients had... hmmm... exotic tastes. I tried to avoid them when I could, but it's hard to tell sometimes, and once they've gotten you at their mercy... complaining to the police would have been futile. I learned how to endure damned near anything. I was terrified that Victoire might torture you; that would have been beyond my ability to handle.'' 

Lina was startled. ''My dear,'' she said, ''do you mean to suggest that you deliberately endured all that, just to spare me?'' 

''Well....'' Rhiannon considered. ''There are certain things a lady learns on the streets. I could tell Patterson was a twisted little bastard; Victoire was beyond insane. But I know a trick or two that might have put them off me; after all, I could have pretended to lose consciousness or screamed incessantly at the top of my lungs or just flopped around like a wet fish or something, or pissed myself. That sort is easily bored.'' She tightened her grip around Lina's waist. ''I stayed conscious as long as possible, and resisted, too, knowing they'd find it a challenge. I hoped they'd be sated with me and leave you alone.'' 

Lina gulped. She'd always thought of Rhiannon as fragile, delicate... but this small woman had a soul of cut-steel. ''I...'' Lina swallowed again. ''My dear, I... I don't know what to say.'' 

Rhiannon kissed the side of Lina's neck. ''It's all right, love. They hurt me, true. But I'll heal. As long as you're with me, I'll heal and I'll be just fine. They couldn't touch my soul, Lina, just my body. And my nose,'' she added, gingerly touching the object in question and grimacing. 

Lina bent her head and gently kissed Rhiannon on the mouth. ''And here I have been, flogging myself over my inability to protect you, when all the while you were protecting me.'' Her emerald green eyes gazed into Rhiannon's pale blue. ''I do not know what aspect of Providence sent you to me, my dear, when I do not deserve you in the least. But I thank God for you all the same.'' 

They held one another, basking in closeness and warmth. Rhiannon did not feel quite as casual about her ordeal as she had pretended to be, but knowing of Lina's propensity for self-recrimination, had sternly decided to conceal just how deeply she had been scarred. 

After all, she said to herself, comforted by Lina's presence, I'm alive, my body will heal, and as long as I have Lina's love I'll be just fine.

Rhiannon said softly, ''Now, why don't you tell me what happened after I fainted?'' 

''That is a tale indeed,'' said a familiar voice. Both women looked up to see the robe-clad figure of Sherlock Holmes as he strode into the tent. 

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Holmes grinned hugely. ''I am gratified to see that you have somewhat recovered, Miss Rhiannon,'' he said, sinking gracefully down to sit cross-legged on the floor. 

''Hello, Holmes,' Rhiannon replied, smiling at the detective. ''I was just asking Lina what happened.'' 

Lina flushed. ''Do not listen to a word that man says, my dear,'' she said. ''He has blown the entire story far out of proportion.'' 

Forbes sauntered into the tent. ''I hardly see how you can refute a pair of eyewitnesses, Evie,'' she said, sitting down next to Holmes and offering him a hand-rolled cigarette. 

The detective put the cigarette into the corner of his mouth and struck a lucifer, lighting both his own and Forbes'. ''Thank you, Angelica,'' he said, ''Now then. Shall I begin the tale or do you wish to?'' 

Forbes considered. ''Perhaps you should begin, Sherlock,'' she replied. ''I will sit here and be awed by your dramatic recital.'' Her light brown eyes twinkled. 

Holmes shot the archaeologist an amused glance, then took a deep drag of his cigarette, exhaling the smoke at the ceiling. ''When I induced Lady Lina into an argument on the Mirror of Hathor, I was playing a role. It was my intention to throw her off her guard as regards myself, thus leaving me free to follow the two of you discreetly. I had no intention of returning to England until I was certain you were out of danger.'' 

''So you really weren't angry?'' Rhiannon asked. 

''Not at all. I knew how my pupil would react upon being commanded so peremptorily; you are entirely too easy to manipulate, my dear Lina.'' The saturnine detective removed the blue turban that perched on his head and scratched his sweaty hair, ignoring the mock threatening fist which Lina shook in his direction. ''At any rate, having successfully implemented my plan, I then began to follow the two of you, keeping close yet making sure my presence went undetected.'' 

''Everywhere?'' Rhiannon opened her eyes as wide as she could and blushed, thinking of that romantic evening in the desert when she danced for Lina's pleasure. 

Holmes cleared his throat, clearly embarrassed. ''Yes, everywhere,'' he said, continuing hastily, ''I was, of course, er... discreet in my observations.'' 

Of course, he had not been; in fact, one of the worst moments of Holmes' life had come when, perched on a dune beneath the velvety night sky, he had watched the two women making love, and in that second, realized fully and completely how futile his dreams were regarding his cherished Lina. Jealousy, hopelessness and sheer loneliness had threatened to overwhelm him; he had mastered himself only by the greatest effort. This was why his assailants had had no difficulty in sneaking up on him. 

He realized the three women were staring at him and cleared his throat again. ''When the two of you were in the tent, I was attacked from behind and struck unconscious, then carried away into the desert. I awoke to find myself in a Bedouin camp; the camp we are currently visiting, in fact.'' 

Rhiannon looked confused. ''But why would they help us?'' she asked. ''We are strangers to them, after all.'' 

A new voice joined the group. ''Ah, but one of you is not,'' it said. 

A man came into the tent, also dressed as a Bedouin in a loose robe and blue turban. He had the golden skin and dark blue eyes that marked him as a nomadic tribesman, but he had spoken with an distinctive Oxford accent. He stopped and stood, clearly waiting. 

''Miss Rhiannon, allow me to present Prince Feisal Hassan, also known as the Haj when he and I were up at Oxford together,'' Holmes said with a smile. ''Haj, old boy, I have the distinct honor of presenting Miss Rhiannon Moore, now conscious and better able to appreciate your hospitality.'' 

''I am most honored,'' the Haj said, placing one hand on his heart and bowing. ''My good friend El Halif has told me much about you. My tent, my horse, my sword is yours.'' 

Rhiannon smiled. ''Thank you, Your Highness,'' she replied. 

''Please, dear lady,'' the Haj said, waving his hand, ''no formality. Your friends, including the most lovely Lady Lina, call me Haj or Feisal. I insist you do the same.'' He gathered the billowing folds of his robe together and sank down onto the carpeted floor. ''Now,'' he said, ''what are you all doing in here? It looks like a tribal gathering.'' 

Forbes grabbed a brass dish from a nearby low table and crushed her cigarette out. ''We are telling Rhiannon what happened, oh Sayyid,'' she said. 

Lina murmured in Rhiannon's ear, ''A sayyid is the chief or leader of the tribe. Feisal has recently inherited the throne, so to speak, from his father.'' 

Rhiannon nodded against Lina's shoulder as the Haj grinned and said, ''And you had gotten to the stupidity of my men, eh, Halif?'' 

Holmes nodded. ''Yes, so why do you not make an explanation of how I got here and why.'' 

''I shall.'' The Haj fixed Rhiannon with his wondrously blue eyes. ''I had heard my good friend the Halif was in the desert country, so I sent some of my men to look for him and invite him here. Unfortunately, they misunderstood, believing I was ordering a kidnapping.'' The prince sighed. ''They were some of my father's older men and I have no doubt they deliberately closed their ears to my meaning. I have had some trouble with them before; they resent me for my relative youth and education.'' 

''At any rate,'' Holmes said, picking up the story, ''When I saw the Haj, I knew I was in safe hands and made my explanations. He generously offered me transportation back to the Mirror and sent along some of his more trustworthy men to accompany me. When I returned to the boat, I realized you and Lina were gone; it took a little while to trace your movements and by then you had already been captured by Victoire.'' 

Forbes began to speak. ''I was faking the depth of my injuries,'' she said. ''As soon as Victoire and her men were distracted by the entrance of you two, I made my escape. I was hoping to reach the boat before it sailed and get reinforcements, but I was too late. My next course of action was to make all haste to Abydos and gather up my own men, but I admit I didn't like the idea of leaving you two in Victoire's clutches for any length of time. I was just about to go back and start some sort of diversion when who should appear but Sherlock Holmes, backed by a horde of horsebacked nomads.'' 

Taking up the thread, Holmes continued, ''When Angelica told me what was happening in the underground cavern, I knew I must effect a rescue and quickly. However, it took time to get my men into position. My plan was to cause the Egyptian guards to discharge their firearms and waste their ammunition without any of my own men being wounded. Leaving the oldest of them in charge, I went down into the cave myself, both to appraise the situation and, if possible, let you know what was going on. You know the rest.'' 

''And after?'' Rhiannon asked, ignoring Lina's warning squeeze. ''What happened after I collapsed?'' 

There was a general clearing of throats and everyone eyed everybody else. Lina glared at the assemblage equally. 

Finally, Forbes spoke up. ''You don't frighten me, Lina,'' she said firmly, ''so you might as well put away those ocular daggers. She deserves to know what happened. All of it.'' 

Lina closed her eyes as Rhiannon looked at her anxiously; then she opened her eyes and nodded, avoiding her lover's gaze.

CHAPTER FORTY

Forbes told the rest of the tale. ''When you fainted, Miss Rhiannon, Evie was beside herself. She was practically convinced you were going to die, and I'll admit, I thought the same thing myself. Some of your, er, internal injuries seemed more serious at the time than they actually turned out to be, but you had lost a great deal of blood.'' 

Rhiannon nodded, still watching Lina's face. 

Forbes continued, ''I examined you and recommended a doctor be fetched immediately, although from where, I hadn't a clue. One of Sherlock's nomads had a medical kit of sorts in his saddlebag, and so I began assessing your injuries and bandaging where required. It was decided to rig a horse litter and carry you at all speed back to Feisal's camp.'' 

Lina listened, trying to control her emotions. She had thought Rhiannon dead or dying; her soul had shriveled in the white-hot blast of pure rage that had accompanied that near unthinkable belief. 

''The two with the fastest horses were dispatched with you, accompanied by several more to act as guards. Then...'' Forbes hesitated, rubbing her spiky rust orange hair with one hand, then continued, ''Then Evie went to Victoire, who by now was conscious. 

''We had taken the precaution of binding her hand and foot. I hadn't an inkling that anything was wrong until I heard this peculiar gasping choke. When I turned around, I saw that Evie had rolled Victoire over on her back and had her foot on the woman's throat. She was pressing down, slowly - watching and laughing while Victoire turned purple.'' 

There was silence for a moment as Lina closed her eyes again, her heart thumping in her chest. She was ashamed; not for trying to kill Victoire - no, the vow she had made she would stand by - but for her method. If she had slit the woman's throat, she would have felt not an ounce of guilt or remorse. But taking pleasure in another's suffering... It makes me just as bad as she, Lina thought. 

The peer's melancholy thoughts were interrupted by Rhiannon, who said fiercely, ''Good!'' 

Lina's eyes flew open and she stared at her lover, who wore a bloodthirsty expression. ''If I'd been there,'' Rhiannon continued, ''I'd have helped you!'' 

Forbes chuckled at the shocked look on Lina's face. ''See, I told you, Evie. Your little one is about as soft as a Damascus blade. Well, Miss Rhiannon, I simply couldn't let Evie continue, no matter how much I'd have liked to. You know our girl; she'd have been eaten alive by guilt and all that nonsense, and we'd have had the Devil's own time convincing her to stop brooding about and getting on with her life.'' 

Despite her good humor, Forbes winced slightly, remembering how she'd had to literally wrestle the taller woman to the ground to stop her from murdering Victoire in cold blood; how Evie had screamed and ranted for what seemed hours after that before a nomad had returned bearing the good news that Rhiannon was not only alive, but would be all right. 

Rhiannon giggled softly. ''That's so true!'' she said, kissing Lina's ear. ''Love, don't be ashamed for what you did... I mean it! I'm only sorry you didn't finish her off when you had the chance.'' 

Lina returned her wife's smile tentatively, and the smile grew wider when Rhiannon squeezed her hand and said, ''Truly, I adore you even more, love. I  probably would have done a lot worse if I thought she was responsible for your death.'' 

Lina relaxed. ''Well, perhaps we can say that I was not quite in my right mind at that particular moment,'' she said. ''However, I assure you that having gained your unequivocal approval, in the future I shall deal with all my enemies thusly.'' 

Rhiannon laughed, saying, ''Ouch!'' when the movement made her bruises and cuts twinge. ''All right, that's enough of that. So I assume that Victoire was dealt with in a lawful manner?'' 

Holmes spoke. ''Haj, at my request, sent one of his men to Cairo with a note for the authorities. Miss Victoire Rousseau is currently dwelling at Her Majesty's expense in a heavily guarded cell at the British Consulate, pending the decision of the court as to which country will try her for her crimes. I've no doubt she will either hang or rot; in either event, she will trouble the two of you no more.'' 

Forbes asked, ''And what of Professor Moriarty? Will you be continuing your case against him, Sherlock?'' 

The detective nodded. ''For the remainder of my life, if need be.'' He rose, stretching. ''And now, ladies, we shall leave you to rest. Haj has kindly invited us to a feast tonight, and even now the fatted lambs are roasting. I, for one, am going to drink some palm wine and discuss cricket with Haj. Coming, old boy?'' he asked. 

The prince rose as well. ''Please, you are to consider yourselves my guests,'' he said to Lina and Rhiannon. ''Stay as long as you like; you honor my tribe with your presence. If you require anything, you have only to ask.'' Taking Holmes arm, he walked out of the tent, his bearing immensely dignified, robes fluttering around his feet. 

Forbes got up and placing one hand on the small of her back, bent over backwards until the vertebrae of her spine popped loudly. ''Children,'' she said, straightening up with a grunt, ''I'm getting far too old to perch comfortably on carpets. If you'll excuse me, I think I'll seek out Solange, who is, I believe, keeping an eye on Fyvie. Your wolfhound is the hit of the younger population, Miss Rhiannon. Even as we speak, she is chasing and being chased and generally causing chaos and havoc and much giggling. Good afternoon, ladies.'' 

The archaeologist left as well, leaving Lina and Rhiannon alone. 

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Rhiannon said, ''I'm getting a little warm, love. Can we dispense with the blanket?'' 

Lina drew off the covering, leaving it in a heap on the floor, then lay back down and turning on her side, gathered Rhiannon close again, careful of the other woman's injuries and the painful pulling in her own side. ''Better?'' she asked. 

''Much.'' Rhiannon breathed in Lina's scent, completely content just to lay there with her beloved. ''What about the treasure?'' she said. ''What's going to happen to it?'' 

Lina gently rubbed her wife's back. ''Prickles, Holmes and I discussed it. While it would be a great archaeological find, we feel that the circumstances surrounding it would be considered far to coincidental to satisfy the authorities. I am already in a somewhat delicate position as regards the statue and could do without further official inquiry. The entrance to the tomb was sealed by Prickles, using the dynamite which Victoire so thoughtfully provided.'' 

''Where is my statue?'' Rhiannon asked, her own hands flat against Lina's shoulderblades, feeling the seemingly delicate wing-like bones through her lover's shirt and wishing she weren't wearing one at all; she wanted to feel her, flesh to flesh, warmth to warmth, and know that she was real and alive. 

''It is here, my dear. I have kept it concealed but rest assured, we shall have it when we return to England.'' 

''When are we leaving?'' 

''In a few days. Prickles helped me arrange for a dahabeeyah, or private sailboat, to take us back up the Nile to Cairo. I am sorry we cannot complete our tour, but I feel it best to return as quickly as possible to England; I am not sure I entirely trust Feisal's doctor and I want you to be seen to by a British surgeon. Besides, you will recover more rapidly at home.'' 

Rhiannon laughed softly. ''Yes, I'm sure Cook will slave in the kitchen, making delicacies like calf's hoof jellies and the like, to tempt my appetite. It's a good thing I do daily practice with the staff and with your baritsu instructor, otherwise I'd be too fat to do more than waddle behind you.'' 

Lina kissed Rhiannon's lips, murmuring, ''I would love you anyway, my dear.'' 

Rhiannon sobered and gazed deeply into Lina's eyes. ''I really would have killed Victoire, with my own hands if necessary, if she'd hurt you.'' 

''I know, my dear. I know.'' Lina nestled her cheek against Rhiannon's and continued, ''Now perhaps you have an understanding of the way I feel when you are in danger. I go mad; I want to do nothing more than rend and tear my way to your side. The very thought of you being harmed is more than enough to arouse my fury; if Victoire had succeeded in killing you, even Holmes would not have been able to stop me.'' 

''But you'll still honor our agreement?'' Rhiannon asked, moving her hands to Lina's shirt buttons and unfastening them one by one. 

''Yes,'' Lina sighed. ''I can do no less, my dear. You are, as Prickles has so firmly reminded me, your own woman. I will not cease to try and protect you; that is both my duty and my pleasure as your loving spouse. However,'' she said, sitting up a bit and peeling off her shirt, then laying back down again, ''I will not keep you caged. I was wrong to try and curtail your freedom, my dear. I will never do so again.'' 

Rhiannon snuggled her face into the valley of Lina's firm breasts and sighed contentedly, wrapping her arms around the other woman's body. ''Good. And I'll keep my word, too. I'll listen to you when we get into dangerous situations, but as long as you trust me to take care of myself, we'll be all right.'' 

Lina smiled to feel the soft exhalations of Rhiannon's breath caress her skin. ''Yes, my dear. We will.'' 

They fell asleep, holding one another close, healing one another with the simple balm of each other's presence. And Forbes, tip-toeing in later to see if they needed anything, gazed for a long moment at the lovers and covered them with a blanket before quietly slipping away. 

Later that evening, when Rhiannon and Lina reclined on a nest of cushions before a roaring fire and watched some of the Bedouin men dancing with swords, Forbes approached, a plate in her hand. 

''Wonderful party,'' the archaeologist said, sitting down and leaning against a padded saddle. ''This lamb is spectacular.'' She nibbled a moment, then swallowed and continued, ''By the by, Evie, I did take something from that tomb before I dynamited it shut.'' 

Lina, her arm around Rhiannon's shoulders, chuckled. ''I thought you might,'' she said. ''No one could have resisted the temptation. Let us have it, Prickles. What object d'art did you find irresistible?'' 

Forbes grinned. ''No treasure of silver, gold or electrum could tempt me enough, Evie. However... knowledge might, and did.'' 

''What do you mean?'' Rhiannon asked, idly toying with a lock of Lina's dark hair. 

''Oh, I found a little something when I was poking about.'' Forbes light brown eyes twinkled. 

''Out with it, Prickles!'' Lina exclaimed in mock anger. ''Cease your teasing and tell!'' 

Forbes pulled a long, thin alabaster box from her shirt. It had been carved to resemble a bundle of lotus blossoms. Removing the top, she withdrew a rolled papyrus. ''This,'' she said, waving the scroll gently. ''I took the liberty of translating it this afternoon when the two of you were napping. Or, at least, I hope you were napping.'' She smiled mischievously and ducked when Lina threw an orange peel at her head. 

''What does it say?'' Rhiannon said, suddenly excited. ''Is it more about Kleopatra?'' 

''In a manner of speaking.'' Forbes unrolled the scroll and squinted down at it. ''This is a burial scroll, children. A confession, actually. Written in the hand of Kleopatra herself.'' 

As Lina and Rhiannon listened intently, Forbes recited the story of the scroll, the crackling of the fire and the muted shouts of the Bedouin adding an exotic atmosphere to the telling of the ancient, mysterious tale. 

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Know that I, Kleopatra VII, descended from the mighty pharaoh, Alexander's general Ptolemy, and the last of the Ptolemy blood to rule Egypt, hereby set down these words so that you, traveler, will know the truth of my life and death. 

After my escape from Alexandria, aided by the Amazon warrior and her kinswoman, I and my children settled in a small village outside of Abydos, where the tombs of those who came before us were guarded by the Priests of Anubis. None knew my identity; I was known as Asiyyah, former handmaiden to the Queen, for even as my soul-beloved had given her life and name for me, even so did I take her own in honor of her great sacrifice. 

The years passed, my children grew and soon forget the splendor of the court, for they were young and absorbed themselves in their new lives. I, too, sometimes forgot that I had been a Queen and ruled over the mightiest country of any, save Rome. 

From time to time I received such news and monies as could be conveyed to me, mostly from the hand of the Chief Priest of Anubis, who continued to protect me throughout his life. Upon his death, I wept, for I considered that I had lost an old friend; my children gazed upon me strangely, wondering why I shed my tears for a stranger and a priest, at that. 

I never again saw the Blessed Amazons again, for they returned to their own land after seeing me settled in Abydos. As my children grew and married, and had children of their own, my face grew wrinkled, my hands gnarled, my belly and breasts sagged with age, and I knew the time would shortly come when I would travel to the Western Lands and my heart judged against a feather to weigh my deeds. A plan had come to me long ago and I knew it must be fulfilled before my death. 

Although the old priest was dead, his son, now an old man himself, ruled over the Temple of Anubis. He came to see me at my summons, a privilege I had never before used. He arrived hastily in the middle of the night, and entered the small house where I had spent so many of my years. 

''What is it you wish of your servant, Oh Queen?'' he asked humbly, casting his eyes down. 

I smiled, for it had been a long time indeed since any had addressed me thus or shown such respect. ''I am dying, holy one.'' I silenced his protests with a hand. ''I am old and have done much; I do not regret my death or fear it. But there is something I must do before my time comes and I require your help.'' 

I explained my plan to the priest, who agreed, for he had heard the entire story from his father; he knew it was necessary to honor and reward the two responsible for my life. 

Now, I lay on my deathbed and write these words with a hand that is steady, for it is my heart that trembles. The tomb has been prepared; I will go into death as Asiyyah, a handmaiden and priestess, and pray the gods will know me by the aspect of my souls. The secret chamber, filled with treasure, has been sealed; the slaves who built it at the priest's direction have been slain, as customary. 

The Beloved-of-Anubis has dispatched a messenger bearing the statue to Greece; it is my hope that if the Amazons who aided me are no longer alive, then their children are, and their descendants may partake of the treasures of my house that I have put aside for them in thanks for their bravery. Surely even the children of the such cunning warriors will be able to decipher my secret; if not, then their reward will await the one who is. 

These are the final words of Kleopatra VII, former Queen of Egypt, last of the Ptolemies. If you are a thief, then may the gods damn you for eternity and may vultures gnaw upon your immortal soul as it wails, lost in darkness. If you are of the Amazon nation, then may you receive the blessing of a grateful queen, and may the gods smile upon you in everlasting peace. 

Forbes allowed the papyrus to roll back up. ''There is a postscript at the bottom from the aforementioned priest; the messenger was murdered in Greece,and the statue disappeared. Kleopatra had died by this time; I believe he feared his queen's wrath and wrote this explanation in order to appease her in the underworld.'' 

Lina shook her head. ''I wonder if the Amazons knew about the treasure... is there any further mention of them?'' 

''Not one.'' Forbes replied. ''At least we know who is buried in the tomb. And that the Amazons were real, not mythological figures as the so-called scholars claim. I hold the proof in my hand!'' 

'Rhiannon said. ''Kleopatra must have loved Asiyyah very much.'' 

Lina raised Rhiannon's hand to her lips and kissed it. ''Not nearly as much as I love you,'' she said. 

They stared at one another until Forbes cleared her throat loudly. ''All right, enough of that, you two! Good Lord, I am beginning to sicken from all of this sweetness and light.'' 

Lina and Rhiannon laughed. ''My dear Prickles,'' Lina said finally, ''We must play matchmaker and find you your own wife. Then, perhaps, you will not be so critical of others.'' 

Forbes raised both hands in a gesture of mock horror. ''Not on my life!'' she cried. ''I am very happy with my bachelor's existence, thank you very much. Besides, how many women do you know who would be content to live in a tent with a grumpy archaeologist day in and day out?'' 

Rhiannon's pale blue eyes glinted with humor. ''Oh... is that your only criteria?,'' she asked. 

Forbes bit her lip, then gave the strawberry blonde a silly cross-eyed look, a parody of a lover's moon-eyed gaze. ''Indeed, my dear,'' she drawled in a dead-on imitation of Lina, ''my criteria are such that none could possibly fulfill it but you.'' She winked outrageously, then gathered up her plate and the alabaster box and wandered away, accompanied by Lina's snorts and Rhiannon's laughter. 

The moon rose high, a silvery goddess accompanied by her handmaids, the stars, and her light cascaded over the swelling dunes and the whispering sands as another night passed in eternal Egypt. 

THE END

<~~~~~ Return to the Library

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The Mystic Dagon's Curse by Nene Adams ©1999 - All rights reserved

 Author's Note: This story takes place between the events described in the Gaslight novels,The Banshee's Wail and The Hour of the Jackel.While it is loosely based on actual events, the characters and situations portrayed here are fictitious and not intended to describe any actual persons, living or dead.

PROLOGUE

Which I wish to remark 
--And my language is plain 
--That for ways that are dark,
And for tricks that are vain,
The heathen Chinee is peculiar. 
  ---Bret Harte, The Plain Language of Truthful James

CHAPTER ONE

LONDON, ENGLAND
July 1889

The house in Grosvenor Square was very quiet that Sunday morning; the servants had taken their weekly half-day off, leaving Lina and Rhiannon completely alone.

The two women sat  in the cozy confines of the drawing room, sipping tea, nestled together on an enormous linen-covered davenport and enjoying the slight breeze that floated in through the open windows. Lina's extraordinary emerald green eyes were half-closed, her jet black hair twisted up into a loose knot at the nape of her neck. In deference to the summer heat, she wore only a thin cotton shift and lace-edged pantaloons, both dyed a green so pale as to appear nearly white; her long legs were bare, ivory flesh gleaming in the dust-speckled sunlight that poured in through the open curtains.

Rhiannon's legs were curled up beneath her; she leaned against her taller partner with a small satisfied sigh. Her red-gold hair was confined in a net snood with a dark blue velvet band arching across the top of her head, and like Lina she was dressed to combat the stifling heat in a pretty, frilly camisole and a thin cotton petticoat.

''Lina?'' Rhiannon said, sitting up slightly to pour herself another cup of tea, ''Have you heard from Holmes recently?''

Lina snorted, nearly upsetting the cup she had balanced on her stomach. Her mentor and friend, the great consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, had been unusually quiet of late; the peer suspected that he was working on some secret case, and in a way resented both his industry and his penchance for keeping quiet about details.

''No, I have not,'' Lina replied acidly, ''and I hope he goes to the Devil for it!''

Rhiannon giggled. ''Really, love! Don't you think you're being a little harsh?''

''No, I do not. I am bored, my dear. So bored, in fact, that should Satan himself appear in a puff of brimstone and offer an adventure in exchange for my eternal soul, I would give the matter serious consideration!''

''Lina!'' Rhiannon sat up straight. ''Surely you don't mean that! Why, it was only last month that we traveled to Scotland...''

''Yes, my dear, I know.'' Lina slumped further down on the sofa. ''But since then, there has not been even the merest whiff of criminal activity in London. I believe all the criminals have fled for the seashore to escape the infernal heat and stench of the city. Perhaps we should go to Brighton; surely there we can find an heiress in distress, a taste of blackmail, or even a murder to whet my appetite.''

Rhiannon rolled her turquoise blue eyes. ''Honestly, Lina! Would you wish disaster upon innocent heads simply because you're bored?''

Lina sighed. ''No, I suppose not.'' She drained her teacup listlessly.

Rhiannon sat in silence a moment, thinking. ''Tell me, love,'' she began, passing a plate of crisp biscuits to Lina, ''didn't you and Holmes investigate some matters before you and I met?''

''Yes,'' Lina replied. She sat up a bit and took a biscuit. ''In fact, he and I shared some amazing adventures together... but that was long ago.''

''Oh, I don't think it was all that long ago,'' Rhiannon said. ''After all, you're not exactly an old woman, are you?''

''True. Once again I bow to your impeccable logic,'' Lina said. Her emerald eyes twinkled. ''Is this a hint, my dear?''

''You mean, would I like to hear of an adventure? You know how I love a ripping good yarn!'' Rhiannon relaxed against her wife, caressing her bare calf with one hand. ''And besides, it will take your mind off your lack of employment. It's the best distraction I can think of.''

''I believe I can think of other distractions,'' Lina purred, grinning at the blush that spread across Rhiannon's sweet face. ''However, it is too bloody hot to repair to the bedroom at this moment. Unfortunately.'' She waggled an eyebrow. ''In that case, what shall it be, my dear? Extortion? Theft? Criminal masterminds? Ah... perhaps bloody murder is more to my lady's taste?''

''Ooooh, Lina...'' Rhiannon shivered a little. ''I'm all over goosebumps at the thought!''

''Good.'' Lina grabbed a handful of biscuits and propped herself up against the arm of the sofa, cradling Rhiannon with one strong arm. ''Then I believe it is time you learned of a case I encountered a few years ago... a strange little adventure involving a mysterious Eastern magician, a magic bullet and murder...''

Rhiannon closed her eyes as Lina began to recount the details of the case she called... The Mystic Dragon's Curse.

CHAPTER TWO

Lina said, ''Holmes has always been fond of the theater. Do not misunderstand - his interest has always lain more with the concert hall rather than the music hall; however, he does have a fascination with a form of popular entertainment that captivates both the low audience as well as the high. I speak, of course, of stage magicians.

''It was his custom to attend the music hall theater upon those occasions when magicians offered their performances - more for the purposes of deducing their methods than being enchanted by them, I fear. I sometimes accompanied him when our lives and caseloads allowed, but for me, it was more of a learning experience than an entertaining distraction.

''Holmes, with his keen observation skills and razor-sharp intellect, was never at a loss to explain the seemingly astonishing illusions we were confronted with - sometimes forgetting himself to such an extent that his raised voice caused considerable consternation from other audience members. I can recall being tossed out of such establishments on more than one occasion due to Holmes' disregard for his fellow man's enjoyment... particularly when he was offended by the gross simplicity of some performer's so-called ''magic act.''

''That night, we were attending a performance at the Green Jenny, a relatively prestigious theater which had often hosted magicians on their stage. Little did we know that the events we were to see portrayed within those walls would end in one man's death... and perhaps even nearly my own.''

LONDON, ENGLAND
March 1886

Sherlock Holmes glanced down his aquiline nose at his companion. His gray eyes were hooded and seemed glazed with contempt. ''No, I confess that I have not,'' he drawled. ''Wang Chung, the Mystic Dragon of the East.'' He glanced at the playbill he clutched in his gloved hands and snorted. ''No doubt a charlatan like the rest.'' 

''Really, Holmes!'' Lina smiled, green eyes sparkling with mischief. ''If you dislike magicians so, why on earth do you subject yourself to their distasteful wares?'' 

''My dear Lady Lina, it is not the performer's offerings to which I object. It is the deliberately provocative and misleading nature of their publicity and their claims of using 'real' magic in a transparent attempt to fool the gullible into believing that their illusions are true. In fact, I rather enjoy deducing their modus operandi; seated in a theater box, at some distance from the actual stage, I find such deductions a challenge. If only they were more honest in their claims...'' 

''Holmes, honesty is not the point! Why, you know yourself that if you point out to the average man that the illusion he has just witnessed and been amazed at has been perpetuated by nothing more than smoke, mirrors and the magician's skills at misdirection, he grows enraged at having his comfortable fantasy disrupted.'' Lina fanned herself with her playbill. ''And can you blame him? He comes to the theater for distraction, not reality.'' 

Holmes snorted again and slumped down in his seat, arms crossed over his chest - a clear indication that he wanted to be left alone. 

Lina continued to fan herself, glancing down at the seats below, which were filled to capacity. Wang Chung had been performing to a packed house since coming to London a few weeks earlier; once he had given a Royal Command Performance for Prince Albert and most of the British peerage, the public couldn't get enough of the mysterious Chinese magician.. 

She sat back in her seat and adjusted the skirts of her claret silk evening gown. She was looking forward to having a fun evening; having her mentor and friend Sherlock Holmes in attendance only made the evening more special - even if he was as cross as a galled badger. As the gaslights dimmed and the voices of the audience died down to a whisper of excitement, Lina relaxed and kept her eyes locked on the stage. 

CHAPTER THREE

The curtains slowly rose, accompanied by thunderous applause from the audience. The stage settings were Oriental, with lacquered screens, potted palms in giant jars and prettily dressed young boys scurrying about in brightly colored silk robes, waving miniature banners and paper dragons. Dark red and gold carpets with extravagant fringe littered the floor; an iron brazier smoked in one corner, sending up a cloud of musky sweet incense. 

Into this scene strode the mysterious figure of Wang Chung, hands concealed within the belled sleeves of his floor length robe. He bowed deeply, the thin fringe of his wispy beard nearly touching the floor. His eyes were squeezed into near slits, and the scrawny moustaches that drooped on either side of his mouth gave him a faintly sinister air. 

For nearly an hour, he astounded and mystified the audience members, conjuring tiny dogs from thin air, producing yards of silk from the depths of his apparently empty hat, even causing the ''ghost'' of a Chinese princess to appear in a cloud of colored smoke. Since Wang Chung spoke no English, his actions were narrated by his assistant - an ancient and bent Oriental crone who perched within an open palanquin, her wavering voice made all the more eerie by echoes cast back by the theater walls. 

Lina was enchanted; Holmes less so. 

''See?'' he said, pointing. ''While you are distracted by his smoke bomb - a trick I have used myself from time to time - he deftly plucks the so-called magic coins from the pocket of his robe. Really, Lady Lina... a child would have little difficulty in divining the nature of his 'magic'.'' 

Lina sighed. ''Holmes, for once in your life, can you not simply enjoy yourself? I realize you are never less than logical...'' 

Holmes interrupted her. ''And that ghost! Why, it is very nearly laughable! A magic lantern, no doubt operated by a confederate, which projects the image onto the smoke screen. After viewing such a travesty, I begin to understand the wisdom of our government in refusing to repeal the antique witchcraft laws.'' 

''Do you truly believe that Her Majesty's government would prosecute a magician for performing? It would be just as well to haul you away, my friend. Many believe you to possess occult powers.'' 

''I cannot deny that, however I have never advertised myself as a necromancer or sorceror. Therein lies the difference.'' 

Lina opened her mouth to continue the argument, then thought the better of it. If Holmes is determined to be indignant, she thought, so be it. I will at least not allow him to spoil my evening.

Wang Chung's act had come to its dramatic finale - "The Emperor's Firing Squad.'' The Chinese magician stood upon the stage with a blindfold across his eyes, clutching a plate to his chest. Two young men dressed in Oriental costume took their positions in front of him; both of them were armed with front-loading rifles. 

Lina leaned forward, one hand clutching the rail in front of her. This was the much-talked-about climax to Wang Chung's performance - both rifles would fire simultaneously and he would catch the bullets in his teeth. This death-defying action had made the magician's reputation and the audience was breathless with anticipation. 

When the assistant asked for volunteers from the audience to come up and examine the bullets, Lina half expected Holmes to rise from his seat. But he did not; the saturnine detective merely harrumphed and continued to slump in his chair, eyes glimmering faintly in the darkness of the theater. 

The bullets having been pronounced real by a former Army general and a baronet, the young marksmen loaded their rifles, ramming the bullets home with a gunpowder charge. Wang Chung calmly stood in position; he would spit the bullets out into the plate he held after catching them. 

There was silence, then from the orchestra came a drum roll. The crone gave the order: ''Fire!''... and the rifles barked simultaneously, puffs of gray smoke wafting across the stage. 

Wang Chung slumped to the stage, the plate he had held shattered into pieces. For a long moment, the audience members rustled and whispered, obviously wondering if this was some sort of dramatic act, comparing it to the performances they had seen before. Finally, the stage assistants realized that something was terribly wrong and rushed over to the fallen Chinaman... and to their horror, the audience realized that the red stain blossoming on Wang Chung's elaborate robe was not dye - it was his own life's blood. 

CHAPTER FOUR

At the first shouts of ''Murder!'' Sherlock Holmes sat up, electrified. ''Let us go, my lady,'' he said shortly, disappearing from the theater box. Lina had no choice but to follow.

Several gentlemen from the audience had responded to the assistants' pleas for a doctor and were engaged in examining the unfortunate Wang Chung. Holmes rudely pushed through to the stage, ruthlessly using his bony elbows to part the milling throng that crowded the front of the theater in the hopes of seeing either Wang Chung's resurrection or his dead body; half of them were convinced it was part of the act but the other half was nearly hysterical with fear.

Lina followed Holmes, ruefully consigning her best hat to the crush when it fell off her head. She was nearly as tall as Holmes and just as strong, so she had little difficulty in shoving the well-fed patrons to one side in order to clamber up onto the stage itself. Fortunately, the skirts of her dress were widely cut and hampered her only a little, but Holmes' absently extended hand was still a help.

Lina surveyed the scene; the theater manager, a Russian emigree named Ivan Petrovitch, was wringing his hands and muttering. Stepping over porcelain shards, Lina confronted him. ''Have you called the police?'' she asked.

Petrovitch babbled something unintelligible in Russian, so Lina said, ''Sir, please calm yourself. Have you summoned a police officer? You do realize the necessity of having a representative of the law on the scene?''

''What?'' Petrovitch's watery blue eyes stared from behind the pince-nez perched on his nose. ''What, what, what? The police? Why are we needing the police? It was an accident, an accident, by God!''

''I am certain it was,'' Lina replied soothingly. ''However, the local constabulary must be notified...''

Petrovitch waved her away. ''I have no time, woman! The stage must be cleaned for tomorrow's matinee!'' 

He wandered backstage and Lina allowed him to go. He's hysterical, poor man, she thought. Let him get away and come to his senses by himself.

In the meantime, Holmes had crouched down beside the body. ''Lady Lina! Come here!'' he barked.

Lina hastened to comply; if anyone else had spoken to her in such a fashion, she probably would have boxed his ears, but her deep and abiding respect for Holmes allowed him to get away with behavior she would not otherwise have tolerated.

When Lina arrived, he pointed at the lax features of Wang Chung. ''This gentleman was not Chinese,'' he said. ''Note the lack of any epicanthic fold about the eyelids. Furthermore, this moustache and beard are artificial, and the saffron tone to his skin has been achieved by the careful application of stage makeup. From my admittedly cursory examination, I would judge that this fellow is English by birth.''

Lina looked thoughtful. ''Hardly a crime, Holmes. Many entertainers use a stage name as well as make-up to alter their appearance. You have done so yourself.''

''To combat criminals, my lady. Not to fool the general public.'' Holmes sat back on his heels. ''No one may leave the building until the police have arrived and determined the nature of the unfortunate gentleman's death. See to it, if you please.''

''What about you, Holmes?'' Lina knelt down beside her friend and pitched her voice low to avoid being overheard. ''Will you not lend your investigative talents to help solve Wang Chung's death?''

Holmes drew in a breath and let it out again slowly. ''My dear Lady Lina, from what I have already observed, I would say that Master Chung's death was accidental. If anyone is so foolish as to stand in front of a firing squad holding loaded weapons, when he is shot it should come as a surprise to no one, including himself.''

Lina argued, but Holmes was adamant - he had absolutely no interest in the case.

''Very well, Holmes,'' Lina finally said. ''I trust you will have no objection if I begin an investigation?''

''If you wish to waste your time, I cannot stop you.'' Holmes saw the burly figures of several policemen entering the theater. ''Now, if you will excuse me...''

He departed from the stage, leaving Lina alone with a rapidly cooling corpse, several crying children... and a Chinese crone whose papier-mache wrinkles were rapidly sliding off her tear-stained face.

Lina walked over to the weeping woman and offered her a clean handkerchief. ''My name is Lady Evangeline St. Claire,'' she said. ''Judging from your dissolving features, you are neither Chinese nor as ancient as you seemed. What is your name?'' 

The woman snuffled, wiping her face with the lace trimmed cloth. ''Miss Mabel Shanks, my lady,'' she replied in a broken voice. 

''Miss Shanks... I offer you my sincerest condolences on your most unfortunate loss.'' Lina snagged a loose length of linen from a passing stagehand and gave it to Mabel, indicating she should wipe her face. ''Perhaps you would care to retire to a more private place to await the police? I am certain they will be at their questioning for hours.'' 

Lina attempted to lead her away, but when Mabel saw the two young marksmen being taken away in handcuffs, she burst into a fresh storm of weeping. ''Me Albert! They're takin' away me Albert!,'' she cried. 

''One of those men is your financee?'' 

''Yes! Oh, please, my lady... don't let 'em hurt me Albert!'' 

''I am sure the police are only taking precautions,'' Lina replied. ''Come; do you have a dressing room? Let us repair there; it will be much more quiet and we can consider what we are to do about your Albert.'' 

Mabel's dressing room was tiny, scarcely able to hold a small dressing table, mirror, chair and a trunk of costumes. The table was littered with cosmetics; half-open drawers were nearly bursting with wigs, feathers, masks and other paraphernalia of the theater. 

Lina got Mabel settled and helped the woman clean her face with some cream from a jar. Beneath the elaborate Oriental makeup she proved to be a pretty young girl of about twenty with mousy blonde hair and brown eyes that were swollen with tears. She blew her nose vigorously and said, ''I'm sorry, my lady. It's just that me an' Albert have been engaged for ever so long, and now who knows when we can have the weddin'?'' 

''I quite understand, Miss Shanks.'' After glancing about, Lina settled onto the closed lid of the trunk. ''Perhaps you can tell me precisely what happened this evening.'' 

''I dunno, my lady,'' Mabel sniffled. ''It were just like any other night. Nuffin' special about it.'' 

''So nothing happened that was out of the ordinary? Nothing at all?'' 

''Nope.'' Mabel scratched her head. ''Me Albert and that fellow Simms done it just like always, same bullets and all. Only now he's dead and me Albert's in gaol! Oh, lady... can you help him? Me Albert, I mean.'' 

''I will certainly make it my business to exonerate your fiancee,'' Lina replied, ''providing, of course, he is not a guilty party.'' 

''Oh no, my lady! Me Albert's a good boy, he is... we was plannin' on getting married next spring, we was just waitin' for me dowry... Master Chung said he was gonna give me fifty whole pounds to spend on the weddin'.'' 

''I see.'' Lina was about to ask another question when she was interrupted by a loud knock on the door. 

CHAPTER FIVE

It was the stage manager, Petrovitch. He had collected himself and was no longer hysterical. ''Mabel,'' he began upon entering, but stopped when he saw Lina. ''I am begging your pardon, my lady,'' he continued with a small tilt of his head. ''The police wish to question Miss Shanks.'' 

''Very well.'' Lina stood and exited the small room. When Mabel had gone, she turned her attention to the theater manager. ''Mister Petrovitch,'' she asked, ''did you notice anything unusual about tonight's performance?'' 

Petrovitch's left eye twitched. ''Nyet. All was as usual, my lady. May I ask, what is your interest in this matter?'' 

Lina considered a moment before replying. ''I am a private consulting detective, Mister Petrovitch. I have been engaged by Miss Shanks to ensure that her fiancee, Albert, is not incarcerated unduly by the police.'' 

''Ah.'' The Russian's eye twitched more rapidly. ''An unusual occupation for a lady, no?'' 

''Some may consider it so.'' Lina pulled the white gloves from her hands and thrust them into the small reticule that hung from one of her wrists. ''May I ask, sir - how well did you know the deceased?'' 

''I was knowing him only a few weeks, my lady,'' Petrovitch answered calmly, although his eye continued its convulsions. His voice held the faintest traceof a Russian accent. ''He was a performer, like so many others; I do not become intimately acquainted with every magician or actor who graces my stage.'' 

''How long have you been in England, Mister Petrovitch?'' 

''Many years. I came here as a boy. My family remained behind in Russia, but I still support them.'' The twitching in his eye began to slow down. ''If you are excusing me, my lady, I must go. I have much to do.'' He bowed from the waist. 

Lina nodded and the theater manager left. 

 Lina swept past a clustered knot of police officers who were attempting to comfort the three Chinese children - none of whom spoke much English - and confronted Holmes. He was speaking quietly with Detective-Inspector Adam Livingston. ''Holmes? Has anything of importance been uncovered yet?'' Lina asked. 

Livingston eyed her warily. ''And how would you be involved in this affair, madame?'' 

''If I had my way, not at all,'' Holmes muttered, then said more loudly, ''Lady Evangeline St. Claire, Inspector Livingston. A colleague and good friend of mine. In answer to your question, Lady Lina, the only thing we have uncovered is unmistakable evidence that points to an accidental death.'' 

''What evidence?'' Lina asked eagerly. 

Livingston cleared his throat. He was a short, slightly rotund gentleman with a large fluff of mutton-chop sideburn framing his florid face. ''If you'll excuse me, Mister Holmes,'' he said. ''I've got a few details to clear up before we can allow these people to go home.'' 

''Of course.'' Holmes watched him go, then turned to Lina. ''Well?'' he asked. 

''Thus far, I have discovered that the Chinese crone is a young Englishwoman named Mabel Shanks, and that the theater manager, Petrovitch, has a nasty twitch in his eye. Oh, and young Mabel is affianced to Albert, one of the marksmen. Neither of them noticed anything unusual or out of place in tonight's performance.'' 

''Nor should they have.'' Holmes indicated a small table; in the midst of the Oriental splendor that still decorated the stage, the little table, all battered and paint-splattered, seemed incongruous. ''These are the instruments of destruction, or, I should more correctly say, this one in particular.'' He picked up a rifle and brandished it at Lina. 

She took it from his hand and sniffed the barrel. ''Recently fired,'' she observed, then peered down the barrel. ''As it is no longer loaded, I would agree with your conclusion.'' 

''It is good of you to do so,'' Holmes replied. ''Now, then... would you wish to learn Master Chung's secret of catching bullets?'' 

''Of course.'' Lina laid down the rifle and took up the other one. ''However, it would be more sporting of you to allow me to figure it out myself.'' 

Holmes fidgeted in silence while Lina examined the still loaded weapon. ''Ah,'' she finally crooned. ''I do believe I have it.'' 

The detective snatched the rifle from her hand. ''While I admire you greatly, Lady Lina, and count you among my closest friends, you can nevertheless be quite infuriating!'' 

''Because I did not allow you to amaze me with your deductions? Come, Holmes, I thought us beyond such parlor tricks.'' 

''It is no trick, as you well know, but the exercise of many years practice in the art of deductive reasoning. But I will not sully my gentlemanly reputation by arguing with a lady,'' he replied with a mocking little bow. ''Since you have examined the evidence yourself, have you reached a conclusion?'' 

''Yes.'' Lina let Holmes fidget a moment longer before explaining how Wang Chung the Mystical Dragon eluded death by catching bullets... until the fateful night when a bullet caught him instead. 

CHAPTER SIX

"It is really quite simple once one knows the trick to it,'' Lina said. ''The guns have obviously been altered. Observe.''

She quickly took the rifle apart. ''You see here, in the barrel where one would place a percussion cap - that has been sealed off with a screw and a channel has been bored in the ramrod tube. When this weapon is fired, instead of setting off a blast in the barrel to fire a bullet, a blast is set off in the ramrod tube.''

She shook the barrel upside down and a bit of paper fell to the floor. ''A small and harmless charge of gunpowder is placed within the ramrod tube; this causes the bang and puffs of smoke we expect to see when a rifle is fired. However, the dangerous bullet remains snug within his chamber, causing harm to no one. Master Chung would then produce bullets from somewhere about his person, conceal them within his mouth when the audience was distracted by the firing guns, and pretend to catch the missiles. Ingenious.''

She peered thoughtfully at the disassembled rifle. ''However, tonight something clearly went wrong.''

''Now it is I who must take up the tale,'' Holmes said. ''I took the liberty of examining Master Chung's dressing room while you were comforting maidens in distress. It seems that the gentleman used specially marked bullets in his performances. In order to avoid damaging the bullets, he used the unorthodox method of unscrewing the breech of the rifle in order to remove the bullet instead of the more usual corkscrew. Since he has been performing this feat for some years, his repeated entries into the breech have caused the entire assembly to become unstable. And as Master Chung is inordinately fond of a very fine grain gunpowder - this due to some aesthetic sense, I suppose...''

Lina interrupted. ''I see! Some of the gunpowder undoubtedly trickled through the worn threads of the screw and into the barrel itself. When the trigger was pulled, the bullet fired, and Chung was killed instantly. Poor man!''

''Not so poor, I am afraid. Our Mystic Dragon received well over five hundred pounds a week from his performances; more, of course, when entertaining royalty. His manager - the gentleman in the corner wearing the rather unfortunate plaid suit - assures me that Chung has played his role in every European nation on earth, to crowned heads and the more humble. If he has less than twenty thousand in the bank today I would be greatly surprised.''

''Does he have any heirs?'' Lina asked.

''As I was not engaged as his solicitor, such information is beyond my ken,'' Holmes replied. ''Now, I hope you are satisfied that what we witnessed tonight was nothing more than an accident due to man's carelessness and not murder?''

Lina took another look at the rifles and shook her head. ''I am still not entirely certain, Holmes... but for the moment I will agree that something happened here - and a man lost his life in the doing of it.''

The following day, Lina was startled to receive a visit from Chung's manager, Martin Mallory. 

''Beggin' yer pardon, yer ladyship,'' Mallory said humbly, snatching the hat from his head and exposing heavily pomaded red hair. ''But I hopes ta have a word er two wit' ya about me poor boy Chung, seein' as how I heard ya was interested and all.'' 

''Of course, Mister Mallory. Do come in,'' Lina answered, showing him into the drawing room of her home in Grosvenor Square. 

Mallory was clearly nervous and constantly pleated the ends of the polka-dotted tie he wore around his neck. ''Ya sees, everybody's twigged onto the fact that he weren't exactly a Chinaman. His real name was Christopher George and he come from London. Been on stage his whole life, I reckon, his mum bein' a nightingale and his da the brain in a head act.'' 

''I beg your pardon?'' 

''His mum were a singer and his da did a mentalist act,'' Mallory explained. ''Ya knows; one of them fellows what puts on a blindfold and gets his assistant ta go through the crowd and he tells folks what's in their pockets, that sorta thing.'' 

''I see. Pray continue, Mister Mallory.'' Lina began to take notes as the manager spoke. 

''Well... he weren't exactly successful as a magician till he got the idea of dressin' up as a Chinaman, people bein' fascinated by the Orient and all. Been goin' the rounds fer nearly eight years, he has, and a right proud act he had, too. Did his stuff fer royalty and the like.'' 

''This is all quite fascinating, Mister Mallory, but what has it to do with me?'' 

''Well, ya sees, yer ladyship... I think Georgie was murdered.'' 

Tea arrived and Lina poured for both of them while Mallory squirmed in his seat with impatience. At last, sipping her tea, she said, ''You interest me strangely, sir. What makes you think Mister George - or Master Chung - was murdered?'' 

Mallory leaned forward. ''Ya sees, I figures he was killed on account of them people what was followin' him,'' he said in a conspiratorial whisper. 

''He was being followed? By whom?'' 

''I dunno.'' Mallory sat back. ''After we left Russia and got back to London, I started noticin' that wherever we went, there was these fellows right behind us. Everywhere, I tells ya! Enough ta give an honest man a fright. Georgie never noticed 'em, or if he did he ain't never said. And right before the performance last night, I seen one of those fellows comin' outta Georgie's dressin' room. Plain as day I seen it! So now I knows somethin' nasty's up.'' 

''Did you tell Mister George of your observation?'' 

''Nope. Didn't have no time. He were out the door and onto the stage before I could say 'Jack Robinson' so I figures I'll tell him after the show's over. Only he got shot. And it were no accident; I don't care what the bloody police say, beggin' your pardon, yer ladyship.'' 

Lina put her teacup down with a click. ''Why come to me, Mister Mallory? Surely your suspicions would be better off in the hands of the police.'' 

''Police? Bah!'' Mallory spat. ''They thinks they got a closed case and there's an end to it! No, I was hopin' you'd get Mister Sherlock Holmes in on it, seein' as how you two are such good friends and all.'' 

Lina felt a flush creep across her face. Holmes! Although she loved the man dearly, there were times when she wished he would vanish off the face of the earth! 

However, she replied calmly, ''I assure you, Mister Mallory, I shall do whatever is within my power to see that Mister George's death has a proper investigation.'' And leave it at that, she silently commanded. 

Fortunately, Mallory seemed satisfied. After much thanks and handshaking, he took his leave at last. 

After he was gone, Lina hurried upstairs to change, ordering her carriage to be brought around from the nearby stables so she could pay a visit to Mister Sherlock Holmes. 

CHAPTER SEVEN

"Did you hear what I said, Holmes?'' Lina was nearing the end of her patience and there was a raw edge to her voice that was a clear warning to push no further. 

Holmes disregarded that warning. ''I assure you, my dear Lady Lina, I am hardly incapable of hearing. Let me see if I have all the facts at my fingertips.''

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his long legs in front of him in a relaxed posture. ''You say Chung's stage manager came to visit you this morning. He told you that Chung was, in reality, an Englishman named Christopher George. He also told you that Master Chung was being followed by mysterious persons bent upon some unknown but presumably nefarious purpose. Am I correct?'' 

''You are,'' Lina replied shortly. Her green eyes snapped with ire; Holmes' cavalier attitude infuriated her sometimes. She took a cigarette from the box near her elbow and lit it with a lucifer, ignoring the sharp tang of sulpher. ''Do you think this has no significance, Holmes?'' 

''I cannot say. Perhaps these gentlemen were merely enamoured of Master Chung's performance and wished to pay their respects but were shy of thrusting themselves forward. It may all be perfectly innocent, you know.'' His gray eyes were the merest slits as he lounged lazily in his chair. 

Smoke curled from Lina's nostrils, wreathing her beautiful face in coiling mist. ''And was Mister Mallory correct in his belief of Master Chung's true identity?'' 

''As a matter of fact, he is quite correct,'' Holmes drawled. ''Christopher George, son of Mildred Barnstable and Donald George, both veterans of the music hall stage. Began performing simple magic tricks at the age of five; had no great success within the theater until he traveled to Europe and began billing himself as Wang Chung, the Mystical Dragon of the East. He developed his special bullet-catching illusion around the same time and it quickly became his hallmark. 

''You should know, Lady Lina, that the bullet-catch has quite the ill reputation among performers, something of the same character as Macbeth has to the acting community.'' 

''The Scottish play?'' Lina smiled slightly. ''It is considered bad luck to say the name of the play within the theater. Actors are often superstitious creatures and prone to concoct queer rituals in order to calm their overwrought nerves.'' 

''You should pay heed to old superstitions, my dear Lady Lina. They have a way of coming true when one least expects it. In the case of the cursed bullet-catch, a number of people have been killed performing this illusion and a host of others wounded. You have perhaps heard of the Belgian magician, Monsieur Fantasm?'' 

''No, I fear not.'' Lina settled back in her chair with a resigned sigh; it was no use interrupted Holmes when he was in the midst of anecdote fever. 

''Ah.'' Holmes steepled his fingertips together. ''It seems that Monsieur Fantasm also had a bullet-catch in his repertoire. His modus operandi was substantially different from Chung's, however. He would load the bullet into the rifle using his magic wand; a small ball of wax on the end of the wand ensured the retrieval of the bullet, which he then spirited into one of his coat pockets without anyone being the wiser. As an added fillip, he thrust the other end of his ivory-tipped wand into the barrel in order to continue the illusion that there was a bullet within. Unfortunately for the Monsieur, he failed to notice that the ivory tip of his wand broke off in the barrel. When the rifle was fired, he was shot with an ivory bullet and killed instantly.'' 

''Holmes! What does this have to do with my case?'' 

''You have no case, my lady! I tell you this story to illustrate the fact that Chung's death was purely accidental and the result of his own carelessness. The authorities have said so and there rests the case.'' 

''But...'' 

''Will you please leave go of this? I beg of you, Lady Lina, do not waste your time or your energy on this non-existent bugaboo, this phantom that haunts your mind... Let it go.'' 

''But...'' 

''I have no more to say on the subject. If you wish to continue this fruitless pursuit, you do so without my assistance or my blessing.'' 

Lina flicked her cigarette into the fireplace and stood up. ''Very well, Holmes. So be it.'' She gathered up her shawl, reticule and bonnet and left, shutting the door firmly behind her. 

Sherlock Holmes stared after her for a long time, his eyes hooded and haunted with shadows of regret. 

Lina visited the police station, the theater and several other places, saving Chung's hotel for last. She wanted to search his room to see if she could find anything of interest, anything at all; she had hit a dead end in her investigation and was grasping at straws. Even Mabel, having her beloved Albert back, was of the opinion that the case was closed and there was nothing more to be done, except get married to her fiancee in two weeks. The date of the wedding had been moved up considerably, and Lina wished the couple a happy life together. At the moment, her own life was becoming more and more frustrating by the second. 

Chung had been staying at The Whitsun Royale, a respectable hotel in one of London's more fashionable areas. By the simple expedient of bribing the desk clerk, Lina easily obtained the key to Chung's room. As she walked up the stairs to the fourth floor, she sincerely hoped that none of the magician's admirers had gotten the key in the same fashion and inadvertantly destroyed vital evidence... if there was any to be found. 

I fear this may yet be another wild goose chase, Lina thought. However, I still have suspicions... of what I cannot yet say. Holmes would say that I am behaving illogically and he would be right, but my intuition tells me that something about Chung's death - or perhaps his life - just does not ring true.

She reached Chung's room - number 401, the Royale suite and the best to be had in the Whitsun. Placing the key in the lock, she opened the door and stepped inside... then stopped in shock. 

Lina was not alone. 

CHAPTER EIGHT

A pair of gentlemen dressed in nondescript dark gray suits stared back at her, then they moved swiftly in her direction. 

Lina, sensing the threat, readied herself; feeling fully prepared to meet any attack with her skill in the deadly Oriental martial art of baritsu. 

One of the men made as if to grab her arm - this was a grave mistake on his part. Lina's foot whipped up and struck him in the knee; as he went down clutching the injured joint, she was already dancing out of the way, skirts held up in one hand, the other slashing across the back of the falling man's neck and sending him into blissful oblivion. 

The second man halted, mouth working. Both men wore blue spectacles and had coffee-brown moustaches; Lina noticed out of the corner of her eye that the unconscious man's moustache was dangling from his lip. It was clearly a fake, a disguise to conceal his true features. 

Lina fumbled in her pocket with her free hand and produced a small pistol. She held it at arms-length, pointing it steadily at her second assailant. ''Stay right there, my good man!'' she commanded. ''I believe I have the advantage.'' 

The cold barrel of a pistol pressed against the side of her head and a strong arm encircled her neck. ''No longer, your ladyship,'' said a cold, silky voice directly in her ear. ''Drop your weapon, if you please.'' 

Lina's pistol dropped to the floor with a clatter. 

''Who are you?'' Lina asked as the blue-spectacled man tied her firmly to a chair. 

''It does not matter who we are, your ladyship. Only that something of importance was stolen from us and we wish its return.'' The gentleman she spoke to was utterly nondescript in height, weight and appearance except for a thin scar that curved from his forehead, over the bridge of his nose and ended in a point at his chin. 

''It must be clear to you that I have only just arrived here,'' Lina said. ''How could I have taken anything of yours?'' 

''I did not accuse, I merely explain,'' the scarred man replied. He lit a cheroot with a lucifer and inhaled deeply. ''You did attack my men, however. It is a good thing for them that I decided to return early, otherwise they may never have lived down the shame of being beaten by a woman.'' 

Lina twisted against her bonds convincingly. Lacking rope, the scarred man had ordered her bound with strips torn from the bedlinens, keeping her covered with his revolver the entire time she had been free. Lina hadn't dared disobey his orders; thus far he had not shown any inclination for violence - and she wanted to keep it that way. 

''They frightened me,'' she said, blowing a stray lock of black hair out of her eyes. ''The desk manager assured me the room was ready for my occupation... imagine my shock upon finding it torn apart by two apparent burglars.'' 

''A pleasant story, Lady Evangeline, but one which I unfortunately cannot believe. I do believe that you have no knowledge of what we seek, otherwise...'' 

''Otherwise?'' 

The scarred man grinned. ''Otherwise, I would be forced to kill you.'' 

His voice betrayed a hint of accent... with a start, Lina realized that the accent was Russian and very similar to Petrovitch's. She wondered aloud if there could be a connection. 

''Do you truly believe that now, having rendered you helpless for the moment, I shall foolishly reveal to you all my secrets?'' The scarred man's black eyes sparkled with good humor. ''My very dear Lady Evangeline... as long as you are ignorant, you are safe. It would hardly be gentlemanly of me to place you in danger, would it?'' 

Lina was furious. ''You are no gentleman!'' she spat. ''If you had anything to do with Chung's death, I swear that you shall pay for it!'' 

''Perhaps, my lady. Perhaps.'' He turned and glared at his two confederates; the unconscious man had wakened and, although groggy, was clearly ambulatory. He said something in Russian and the two men left, one half-supporting the other. 

Turning back to Lina, the scarred man gave her a courtly bow. ''I hope that you will not take this ill, my lady, but it is my sincerest hope that we never meet again.'' With this sally, he departed, closing the door gently behind him. 

Lina ground her teeth... then set about the serious task of loosening her bonds and setting herself free. 

It took Lina only five minutes to break free of her linen bonds. When her captor had been tying her up, she had surreptitiously held her wrists slightly apart, flexing the muscles in her arms so as to provide a bit of slack when she relaxed. This, too, was a magician's trick, one she had learned while attending an escape artist's show with Sherlock Holmes. That method, combined with her natural agility and strength, made breaking free a matter of mere moments. 

It is a good thing that I pay attention to more than being entertained, Lina thought as she made her way down the stairs, every fiber alert for a possible attack from the Russians. Otherwise, I would be just another heroine in distress, tearfully waiting for the hero of the story to rescue me from certain doom.

In the lobby, the desk clerk was eager to tell Lina where the three strangers had gone - for a price. Having already primed the pump with five pounds, Lina was not eager to surrender a further sum but relented when she considered the alternative.

I have no wish to be flung into gaol on an assault charge, she thought, even if this bloody clerk is the greediest bastard who has ever been corrupted by the root of all evil.

The clerk, his memory lubricated with a further five pounds, hastened to tell Lina that the gentlemen in question had been overheard ordering a cab to take them to Woolsey Street, an address near the Billingsgate docks and one of the seediest places in London. 

Lina wasted no time in hailing her own hansom cab, bent on pursuit and revenge. 

CHAPTER NINE

Lina tracked the men down to a dilapidated house on Woolsey Street. The unbelievable stench of the Billingsgate docks was well nigh overwhelming, especially in the unusual heat of that year's spring; the smells of rotting fish, overflowing gutters and horse dung nearly scalded the nostrils and caused the eyes to water in defense. 

Picking her way through the garbage strewn yard, Lina fought hard to push the overgrown branches of a lilac bush out of her way so she could peer through a dirty window on the ground floor. It was the house's library, and to her gratification, the three gentlemen were within, gathered around a table, smoking cigars and talking to one another. 

By pressing her ear to the glass, Lina could just make out what they were saying; unfortunately, it was all in Russian. So she settled down within the prickly confines of the lilac bush, nursing bloody scratches on her arms and keeping one eye cocked on the proceedings. 

After an hour had passed, the crunch of carriage wheels up the crushed-shell drive announced a new arrival. Not wanting to give her position away, Lina stayed where she was. Her patience was soon rewarded, for Petrovitch entered the library and began speaking to the Russians. 

Although she was unable to understand their speech, it was clear that Petrovitch was highly peturbed about something. He was sweating freely and his eye twitched uncontrollably. He waved his arms in an agitated fashion, his voice rising higher and higher... until a sharp word from the scarred man made him fall silent. 

The scarred man, clearly the leader of the organization, spoke kindly but firmly to Petrovitch, even going so far as to put a fatherly arm around the other man's shoulders. Petrovitch's eye danced more frenzidly at this, but his voice remained in control as he softly answered the scarred man's inquiries. 

Eventually, shoulders slumped in defeat, Petrovitch took his leave, his departing back speaking eloquently of his distress. 

As soon as his carriage rolled away, Lina extracted herself from the clutches of the lilac bush and, hailing a cab, followed him back to his hotel - not surprisingly, the Whitsun Royale. 

Petrovitch was clearly taken aback by Lina's appearance at his door. Her fashionable visiting gown of blue-gray silk was ripped, even shredded in places; the lace trim and silk roses that swagged the skirts hung crazily from one side. Her bonnet was askew, gloves black with filth, and her dark hair a tangled mess that straggled across one eye. But the one green eye visible was bright with undeniable purpose and the theater manager was unable to prevent Lina from entering his rooms. 

She stripped off her gloves, glancing at them with a grimace before tossing them into a nearby wastepaper basket. ''Thank you for agreeing to see me, Mister Petrovitch,'' Lina said, perching on a tufted ottoman and arranging her torn skirts as neatly as possible. ''I assure you that the matter is of some importance, otherwise I would hardly have arrived at your doorstep in such an unsuitable state.'' 

''That is all right, your ladyship,'' Petrovitch replied. ''I am offering you anything you like; maybe a nice cup of tea?'' 

''No, thank you.'' Lina looked around the room, absently untying her wrecked bonnet and placing it on a nearby table. ''I have come, Mister Petrovitch, because I have reason to believe that you were involved in the death of the magician Wang Chung, also known as Christopher George.'' 

''My dear lady!'' Petrovitch's eye twitched. ''How can you be making such accusations?!'' 

Lina leaned forward, her expression one of triumph. ''Because not an hour ago I saw you enter a house, Mister Petrovitch. A house containing three Russians whom I believe to be agents of a foreign power bent upon doing some harm to Her Majesty's Empire. I tell you, sir, that you seem to be involved in dangerous affairs that may have international consquences far beyond those of a simple magician's death. Tell me I am wrong, and I shall tender my apologies and leave at once.'' 

Petrovitch collapsed into a chair, rubbing his temples with one hand. ''I cannot, Lady Evangeline. You are correct. What am I to be doing? I cannot tell you, for if I do then innocents may die.'' 

''I assure you, Mister Petrovitch, that I will do everything within my power to protect you and these innocents of which you speak. Tell me, please... what evil is afoot and how are you involved?'' 

Petrovitch's watery blue eyes seemed to shimmer with unshed tears as he searched her face. At last, with a sigh, the Russian surrendered, deciding he could no longer conceal that which he had kept hidden for so long. ''Very well, my lady. I shall reveal all and trusting you I will be.'' 

Lina settled down to listen to Petrovitch's tale. When he was finished, she stood up and swiftly gathered her things. ''Sir... we must go at once to Sherlock Holmes.'' 

''Can he help us?'' 

Lina looked down at the mournful Russian. ''Mister Petrovitch, at this moment only Sherlock Holmes can save us all.'' Her green eyes glittered with excitement. ''We must leave immediately. There are more lives at stake than you know.'' 

She led Petrovitch downstairs, keeping her pistol handy... and soon they were on their way to Baker Street. 

CHAPTER TEN

Holmes lit his pipe and allowed a trickle of smoke to escape his lips. ''Lady Lina! And Mister Petrovitch! What a pleasant surprise! Do come in.'' 

Lina led Petrovitch past the stout form of the housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson, and nodded to the recumbant figure of Holmes. The great detective lazed on the sofa, legs covered by a knitted afghan, a snifter of brandy at hand. Mrs. Hudson, with a disapproving sniff, shut the door and left the three of them alone. 

''Well, my lady,'' Holmes said, eyeing Lina's torn dress, ''I trust that something of moment has occured in your little investigation? Or perhaps in your personal life?'' he jibed. 

''A deduction, Holmes?'' Lina raised an ebony brow and indicated the scratches on her arms. ''I assure you they were not caused by an hysterical female, but rather an overly aggressive lilac bush.'' 

''Ah.'' Holmes took another puff of his pipe. ''You have been in Billingsgate, have you not? In Woolsey Street, if I am not mistaken, where you crouched in the dirt and endured the prickly tentacles of the lilac bush whilst spying upon three Russians. A fourth entered, whom you knew, so you abandoned your post in favor of confronting this fourth party... and that is Mister Petrovitch, I assume?'' 

''Correct. You doubtless deduced my presence in Billingsgate by the still detectable odor of the mud on the hem of my skirts; the Woolsey street connection by the clods of dirt on my shoes... but how on earth did you know about the Russians?'' 

Holmes let out a barking little laugh. ''I have known about the Russians since my brother Mycroft informed me of them yesterday evening. He also provided information on Mister Petrovitch's involvement in this affair. It involves far more than you know, Lady Lina.'' 

Lina snorted. ''I know quite a bit, Holmes. Let me see if I have all the facts at my fingertips,'' she said in a sarcastic imitation of the great detective. ''From what Mister Petrovitch revealed to me, the three Russians are agents of that government, sent to retrieve a highly sensitive document, the contents of which our good theater manager is ignorant. His role in this little drama was simple; he informed the Russians of Master Chung's movements while in London and provided them with access to the backstage area of the theater... he further revealed to them the secret of Master Chung's altered rifles.'' 

Petrovitch stirred in his chair. ''I was overseeing him one evening when he thought he was alone. Illyanovitch, the chief, was wanting to be informed of every detail, so this I told him, too. He must have sabotaged the rifle to kill Chung. I swear I did not know!'' 

''That is quite all right, Mister Petrovitch,'' Holmes said. His gray eyes gleamed. ''Do go on, my dear lady.'' 

Lina inclined her head. ''Mister Petrovitch was laboring under pressure; his family still resides in Russia, and their lives were threatened. If he did not cooperate, his family would be killed. He had no choice but to do as they commanded.'' 

''Quite understandable,'' Holmes replied. 

''Wang Chung, the Mystic Dragon of the East - or Christopher George - was not only a magician. He was an agent of Her Majesty's government, charged with seeking out information about foreign powers that might be relevant to the Empire's international security. His disguise as a Chinaman was a stroke of brilliance; as a skilled performer and an Oriental, he would be welcomed in courts around the world, and as it was believed that he spoke only Chinese, people would not be overly cautious about what was said in his presence.''

Lina pushed a strand of black hair out of her eyes before continuing. ''At any rate, Chung discovered something in his recent visit to the Czar's court; his natural agility, sleight-of-hand skill and other tricks in the magician's repertoire can also be used for a more nefarious purpose - that of burglery. Some document was stolen, concealed within his trunks, and brought back to London.'' 

''Correct.'' Holmes tapped his pipe against the hearth; a shower of sparks littered the carpet and were extinguished by his foot. ''What then, my lady?'' 

Lina delicately scratched her cheek. ''The Russians discovered the theft and sent agents to retrieve the document. But Chung was too clever; he destroyed the original, but made a copy and hid it in such a way that they could not find it. So they began to follow him, hoping to observe him passing the document to British agents.'' 

''Allow me to finish the tale,'' Holmes said. ''The document in question is the draft of a highly secret treaty being explored between the governments of France and Russia. As Her Majesty's government has already made agreements with France, you can imagine the consquences if such a treaty were to come to light.'' 

Lina nodded. ''Of course. The Great Game must continue, eh Holmes?'' 

''Born in the deserts of Afghanistan, who knows where and how it will end?'' Holmes grimaced at his empty pipe and laid it aside. ''I detest this cloak and dagger nonsense, but Mycroft insisted the details be kept concealed from everyone, including yourself. Chung was supposed to pass the treaty to British agents following the show last evening but was killed by the Russians. They had already searched his dressing room... I assume they believed they had their property, otherwise they would hardly have murdered the only person who knew where it was hidden.'' 

''They found some papers written in code,'' Petrovitch mumbled. ''They were thinking it was the copy of the treaty, but it turned out to be Chung's personal notes on some of his magic tricks.'' 

''I can imagine their chagrin,'' Lina said. ''With Chung dead, they had no way of locating the treaty.'' 

''Precisely.'' Holmes looked grim. ''Mycroft has charged me with locating the missing treaty. I searched Chung's dressing room and his trunks, costumes and the like, and came up empty. I also searched his hotel room.'' 

''So did the Russians.'' Lina smiled ruefully. ''That is how I met them, Holmes. Fortunately, they did nothing more harmful than securing me to a chair.'' 

''As you are my protege, you know you are of interest to foreign powers, my dear lady.'' Holmes' brows came together in a frown. ''I am gratified that you came to no harm, but after all my warnings...'' 

''You protested too much, Holmes! You know I can never resist a challenge. I applaud your actor's skills, however this time you laid it on a bit thick. I was more determined than ever to get to the bottom of this mess.'' Lina sat down with a sigh. ''Now all we need to do is find the missing treaty.'' 

There was silence while Lina thought... then she suddenly grinned from ear to ear. ''Holmes!,'' she announced with an air of triumph. ''I know where the treaty is!'' 

''You do?'' Holmes sat up straight, knocking over his brandy snifter. ''But how?'' 

Lina raised an eyebrow and her grin widened. ''Because like any well mannered cavalier, I always render aid to damsels in distress!'' 

Both Holmes and Petrovitch looked askance... until Lina explained. 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The door cracked open, one brown eye visible in the faint trace of daylight left. ''Yes?'' a woman's voice said. 

''Miss Mabel Shanks?'' Lina asked. ''Remember me? Lady St. Claire?'' 

''Oh, yes!'' The door swung wide open, revealing the pretty young stage assistant. ''Good evenin', yer ladyship.'' She bobbed her head and made a small curtsy. ''What can I do for you?'' 

''Mabel, I hope you can help me,'' Lina said, entering the small flat. She had taken the time to change her ruined clothing, ignoring Holmes' chuffs and exclamations of impatience. Now clad in a lovely cream and navy striped dress with yards of ruffled trim, she looked the very picture of an aristocratic lady of means. 

Holmes followed at Lina's heels, earning a startled glance from Mabel. ''Who's he?'' she asked, backing away in alarm. 

''It is quite all right, Mabel,'' Lina said. ''This is Mister Sherlock Holmes; he escorted me here.'' 

''Miss Shanks,'' Holmes said with a sardonic tilt to his head. ''I trust we have not unduly discommoded you.'' 

''Well, I dunno,'' Mabel answered, hitching at the neck of her thread-bare robe. ''What do you want?'' 

''We have come here regarding something that was taken from Master Chung's dressing room...,'' Holmes began. 

Mabel's mouth opened and closed several times, then her face crumpled. ''Ooooooh!'' she wailed, ''Don't send me ta gaol! Please, yer ladyship! I didn't mean nuffink by it! It were only me due, that! And me Albert didn't do nuffnik wrong, neither!'' 

Lina hastened to comfort the weeping woman. ''I told you, Mabel, it is all right. We are not here to arrest you. We only want information.'' 

Mabel snuffled heavily. ''I didn't mean no harm... I was only takin' me due.'' 

''I know.'' Rolling her eyes, Lina offered the sniveling young woman a clean handkerchief from her reticule. After Mabel had blown her nose and wiped her wet face, the peer continued, ''What did you take from Master Chung? Was it your money?'' 

''Yes.'' Mabel plopped down on an ottoman. ''He was dead, wasn't he? And him what promised me fifty pounds fer my weddin' with me Albert. It was only what was owed to me, nuffink more or less.'' 

''I understand.'' Lina ignored Holmes' muffled snort. ''So after the police finished questioning you, you went back to Master Chang's dressing room and took fifty pounds...'' 

''Not quite.'' Mabel stared at the tips of her embroidered slippers. ''He owed me fer the week, didn't he? And me Albert, too.'' 

''How much did you take, Miss Shanks?,'' Holmes asked. 

Mabel mumbled, ''Hundred pounds.'' She looked up and her brown eyes flashed with defiance. ''It were me due!,'' she insisted. 

''Now listen to me, Mabel,'' Lina said seriously, crouching down so she could look the young woman in the eye. ''This is very important so I want you to think hard before you answer me. Was the money lying lying loosely on the table or was it wrapped up in something, a paper perhaps?'' 

Mabel looked puzzled. ''No... not paper...'' 

Holmes sagged and sank down into a nearby chair. ''A complete waste of time,'' he muttered beneath his breath. 

Lina shot him a searing glare, then bestowed a more patient look on Mabel. ''Not paper? Then it was wrapped in something? What was it? A cloth? A strip of leather?'' 

Mabel frowned in disgust. ''No,'' she said in the tone reserved for speaking to very small children or the mentally ill. ''It was in a nice clean envelope.'' 

''An envelope?'' Lina's voice betrayed her excitement. ''Do you still have it?'' 

''Mmmm...'' Mabel's eyes scrunched up in contemplation. ''I think it's in me bureau. I always keep nice bits of paper and such. I'll just go have a look, shall I?'' 

By this time, Holmes had sat up, electrified. Could the solution be so close at hand? he wondered. Could it be this simple?

The soft smile that curved Lina's lips answered him simply: Yes. It can.

In a few moments, Mabel returned bearing in her hands a simple cream envelope. Lina took it from her reverently. Holmes rose from his chair to stand directly over Lina's shoulder, peering at the envelope with intense concentration. 

Mabel scratched her head. ''How come a posh lady like you wants a plain old envelope? I'd have thought you could afford to buy much fancier ones.'' 

Lina walked over to the hearth and stirred up the fire with the iron poker. ''Ah, but I could never buy an envelope such as this, my dear Mabel. For this is a magic envelope. Observe! Abracadabra!'' 

She carefully used the small jacknife Holmes handed her to cut apart the flaps that held the envelope in its shape. When she finished, she held a flat, oddly shaped piece of paper with several deep creases. Lina then held the paper close to the fire, taking care not to scorch it. 

In a few moments, dark brown lettering began to appear on the pristine surface.

''Ooooooh!,'' Mabel squealed. ''Ain't that a proper trick!'' 

''Yes, isn't it?'' Lina answered, but her eyes sought out Holmes'. ''Quite a proper magician's trick, I should say.'' 

''And you would be absolutely correct,'' the detective answered. He took the paper from Lina's hands and examined the writing. ''A more expensive envelope could hardly be found; the cost was a man's life,'' he said, folding it up and storing it away inside his inner coat pocket. ''I shall see that no time is wasted delivering it into my brother Mycroft's hands.'' 

Holmes disappeared into the night... 

And Lina watched her friend and mentor go, a warm sense of satisfaction at solving the unsolvable glowing down to her very bones. 

LONDON, ENGLAND
July 1889

Rhiannon rolled her turquoise blue eyes and huffed, ''But Lina! You haven't finished the story!'' 

''Have I not?'' Lina bestowed a warm smile on the woman she loved. ''The copy of the treaty was recovered, thus ending both investigation and my tale.'' 

''But I have some questions!'' Rhiannon's voice took on a wheedling tone. ''Oh, please, Lina...'' Her backs of her fingers slid up the bodice of Lina's thin shift and caressed the edge of her jaw. ''Please...'' 

Lina laughed, trying without success to elude Rhiannon's tickling fingers. ''Very well, my dear. Ask your questions and I shall answer them, although I should have thought that everything was quite obvious.'' 

''Hmph!'' Rhiannon rolled over onto her stomach, laying between Lina's outstretched legs, her head pillowed on the other woman's stomach. ''Well, one thing I can surely puzzle out for myself.'' 

''And what is that, my dear?'' 

''It's an old nursery trick. Remember, my father was a tutor and I grew up in the classroom. When children want to play at sending 'secret messages' to one another, they use milk or lemon juice as ink. It disappears on the paper, but when it's heated, the lettering reappears as if by magic,'' Rhiannon said smugly. 

''Well done!,'' Lina replied. ''Although I never heard of that particular trick myself until Holmes and I exposed a false medium who used that same method to cause 'spirit messages' to appear before the eyes of bereaved and vulnerable relatives.'' 

Rhiannon smiled. ''But how did you know that Mabel had the copy of the treaty? Even Holmes was unable to locate it...'' 

Lina sighed. ''Sometimes Holmes can be very obtuse, especially when it comes to members of the female sex. He finds their behavior illogical and quite baffling.'' 

''Apparently, so do I.'' Rhiannon thought hard but finally admitted defeat. 

Lina provided an explanation. ''Remember when I told you that Mabel and her Albert had been unable to get married because of the fifty pound dowry promised by Master Chung? And yet, when I visited Miss Shanks the day after the murder, their wedding had been planned for two weeks hence instead of the following spring. I admit that I did not make the necessary connection at the time...'' 

Rhiannon interrupted. ''Of course! Mabel Shanks was a very practical woman, wasn't she? Lack of money was the only obstacle standing between her and wedded bliss with Albert. So it follows that she must have obtained the necessary funds in an incredibly short amount of time. And the only way she could have done this was by taking it from a source where it wouldn't be missed... Master Chung's dressing room!'' 

''Yes, my dear. Once I realized that the treaty had been searched for by experts and remained out of sight, the only possible conclusion was that it had been removed from its place of concealment. Where could it be? And since it had not yet surfaced, it had obviously been taken by a person ignorant of its contents. Thus my hypothesis that Mabel was the unwitting thief, which proved to be a correct one.'' 

''When you explain it everything sounds so simple,'' Rhiannon said. 

She lay quietly for a while, listening to Lina breathe. Finally, she opened her eyes and said, ''I suppose Holmes was furious.'' 

Lina smiled to herself. ''Not quite, although he never again attended the performance of a magician at the theater. And when I presented him with a magic wand on the following Christmas Day, the poor man did not speak to me for a fortnight!'' 

Both women's laughter echoed through the empty house... 

While outside, the dreadful summer heat was finally broken by a thin and cooling rainshower. 

THE END

Author's Afterword

On a Saturday in March, 1918, the famous magician Chang Ling Soo performed his magic act for the last time. The finale of his performance, as it had been for twelve years, was the bullet catch known as "Condemned To Death By The Boxers.'' 

This time, however, the trick went wrong. Soo was shot in the chest and died in the hospital soon after. 

The details of the alteration of the rifles and the method used for this particular trick came out during the official inquiry into Soo's death. Some speculation remains as to whether Soo's death was accident (the official verdict), sucide or murder. 

I have used Soo's methods for performing the bullet-catch illusion in my story, however I do not suggest you try this at home. To date, twelve people have died trying to perform this magic trick and many other magicians have been wounded. 

The bullet-catch illusion is considered by many to be cursed.

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PROLOGUE
 Yea, there thou makest me sad and makest me sin
     In envy that my Lord Northumberland
     Should be the father to so blest a son,
     A son who is the theme of honour's tongue;
     Amongst a grove, the very straightest plant;
     Who is sweet Fortune's minion and her pride:
     Whilst I, by looking on the praise of him,
     See riot and dishonour stain the brow
     Of my young Harry. O that it could be proved
     That some night-tripping fairy had exchanged
     In cradle-clothes our children where they lay,
     And call'd mine Percy, his Plantagenet !
     Then would I have his Harry, and he mine.
     -----William Shakespeare

CHAPTER ONE 

London, England
November 1889

Rhiannon contemplated the action she was about to take. Once, she would have been appalled at the very notion; now, it seemed like the only recourse left to a woman whose life had fallen into flaming wreckage around her. 

The ordeal she'd suffered at the hands of the madwoman Victoire Rousseau - daughter of Holmes' mortal enemy, Professor James Moriarty, and Lina's greatest  foe - still haunted her; memories hounded Rhiannon unmercifully until it seemed she must either fall headlong into madness or simply shatter into a thousand screaming shards. 

Rhiannon had initially pretended to be fine, had returned to England with Lina; getting away from Egypt and the specter of Victoire seemed like the best solution to her problems. For a month or more Rhiannon had gone about her daily life as if nothing had happened, nothing had changed. But it had... oh God! how it had changed. 

It began with nightmares; she would wake herself up screaming, soaked in sweat, heart pounding so hard she thought it would break free from her chest. Rhiannon had rebuffed Lina's attempts to help, thinking that if she could only get enough time and distance between herself and the torture she had endured, it would get better. Everything would return to normal as if by magic; pain erased in some mythical, never-to-be-attained moment that she desperately chased, desperately craved - and never received. 

Things had deteriorated to the point where she could no longer stand for Lina to touch her; even something so simple as a hug caused Rhiannon to flinch violently, then break down weeping, hot tears scalding her heart as well as her soul. She thought she'd lose her beloved Lina, and that thought was the hardest of all to bear. 

Lina had been perplexed but had tried to be sensitive; after struggling to get Rhiannon to talk about it and finally giving up in frustration, the peer had just stopped touching her, knowing how much distress it caused. Things gradually ground into a familiar routine of bewildered and increasingly angry questioning on Lina's part... with storms of weeping and sullen silence on Rhiannon's. Soon, there was only silence left as Rhiannon withdrew further and further away from the world and their relationship. 

At last, deeply wounded, Lina did the only thing she could. She moved out of their bedroom, determined to stay away from her lover until she was fully healed... however long that would take. Once Rhiannon was back to her old self - hadn't the doctors she'd consulted prescribed rest as the best cure for manic hysteria? - then they'd simply put the whole thing behind them and life would continue as it had before. 

For Rhiannon, Lina's mistakenly good intentions proved to be the final straw. 

She snapped under the strain, the weight of her emotional burden suddenly proving far too much to bear. She saw Lina's removal from their shared bed as the ultimate rejection, the death of the vows that had once bound them together, the splintering of both present and future. 

Without Lina, she was nothing. 

Without their love, she had nothing. 

Hopes and cherished dreams had turned to bitter dust; ashes that trickled through her hands and left her grasping emptiness and dark despair. What was there to live for? 

The answer was clear. Nothing.

Now Rhiannon lay in the bathtub, steaming water lapping at her chin. She stared at the object in her hand, momentarily fascinated by the play of light along its glittering edge. 

Dreamily, she lifted a hand from the water... 

And then used the straight razor to slit her wrist to the bone. 

CHAPTER TWO

"My dear? Rhiannon, where the Devil are you?'' Lina's voice echoed through the empty house. All the servants had been given the night off; the peer intended to surprise Rhiannon with dinner at Delmonico's and the opera. 

I hope I can persuade her to accompany me, Lina thought. She has been locked up in this cursed house like a martyr in a tomb for weeks; some fresh air and congenial company will surely do her good. True, I did not consult her as to my plans, but on the other hand, it is sometimes easier to ask forgiveness than permission, especially given the prickly mood my poor darling has been in lately.

''Rhiannon?'' Lina looked in the study; although the pocket door was open, there was no one inside. 

Her brows drew together in a frown. A cab was waiting at the curb and if they didn't hurry, they would be late for their dinner reservation. 

I wonder where she can be?

When Lina had left that afternoon, Rhiannon had been pale and withdrawn, but this in and of itself did not alarm the peer. Over the past three months, her wife had lost a shocking amount of weight, but Rhiannon had insisted it was due to a stomach virus she'd caught in Egypt and had refused to see a physician despite Lina's insistence. 

She has grown so thin one can practically see through her, Lina thought as she gathered her skirts in both hands and began climbing up the stairs. 

Cook has outdone herself preparing delicacies to tempt her appetite, but Rhiannon pushes the food around her plate then hides it beneath her napkin as if she was still in the nursery, slyly concealing unappetizing vegetables under the watchful gaze of a governess. Those Harley Street physicians I have consulted regarding her emotional state seem to be doing no good at all. Their sole panacea is laudanum.

Perhaps a slight bit of deception is in order. I can invite Watson and Holmes over for dinner. Surely, she will not refuse to see our old friends and the good doctor may be able to help.

Upstairs, the long corridor was as silent as the rest of the house. ''Rhiannon? My dear, I have something to tell you.'' 

There was no reply. 

Lina began to feel uneasy. 

Rhiannon has not been her usual self for some time. I have tried to get her to speak to me, tell me what is wrong, but she pushes me away again and again, telling me she only wants to be left alone. I gave her what she wanted... then she did not even want me to touch her anymore.

Moving out of our bedroom is the right thing to do, I suppose. If solitude is what Rhiannon requires in order to heal, then that is the least I can do.

It might be lonely and cold, but at least she has not left me.

This small consolation made the dark haired woman's chest ache dully. She may as well have left me, Lina said silently to herself. Her body is here, but I do not know where her heart has gone, only that I cannot reach it anymore.

Lina pushed open the bedroom door. ''Rhiannon?'' 

The room was deserted but the peer noticed something strange; Rhiannon's dress, the pale green wool gown she had been wearing that afternoon, was in a crumpled heap on the floor. Having come from a life of destitution, her lover never treated expensive clothing that way. 

A trail of underthings led to the firmly closed door of the bathroom. 

The feeling of uneasiness grew stronger. Lina opened the bathroom door, clearing her throat. ''I beg your pardon, my dear, for the intrusion,'' she began... then stopped, green eyes widening in shock and horror. 

Rhiannon lay in the claw-footed tub, her hair loose and flowing in dark red strands around her colorless face. Both her wrists had been neatly slashed, the wounds still flowing sluggishly, crimson clouds blossoming in the still steaming water and diluting almost immediately to pale pink. A straight razor lay on the tile floor, the edge dark with blood. 

With a strangled moan, Lina crossed the room and hauled Rhiannon bodily out of the tub, ignoring the stream of water that soaked her dress. Her lover's wet hair clung to her face and arms as the desperate peer carried Rhiannon to the bed and put her down gently. After a quick glance around, Lina tore strips from the bed sheet with a wrench. 

She used the crude bandages to tie up Rhiannon's wrists, noting with a small sense of relief that the other woman's heartbeat was still strong. 

She must have just done this, Lina thought, tying off a knot with her teeth. Thank God I arrived in time!

''Rhiannon? Please, love, talk to me!'' she said, patting her unconscious wife's face. 

Rhiannon lay so still that Lina had to resist the urge to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. ''My dear... please... I beg you... WAKE UP!'' 

When that plea had no effect, Lina took a bare second to toss an afghan over Rhiannon's wet, nude body, then raced out of the room and down the stairs. 

She threw open the front door, water dripping from her dress and pooling around her feet, bodice and skirts spotted with blood, ebony hair a tangled mess around her pale face. 

''You! Driver!'' Lina shouted. ''Drive like the Devil to Paddington and fetch back Doctor John Watson! Tell him it is an emergency, a matter of life and death!'' 

 When the driver hesitated, Lina scrambled across the threshold and stumbled to the cab. She literally flung a handful of pound notes up into his shocked face, screaming, ''GO! DAMN YOU! GO!'' and snatching the whip from its socket, lashed the harnessed horse with all the strength of her arm. 

The horse half reared with a scream of its own and took off down the street, iron-shod hooves striking sparks from the cobblestones, the driver cursing and struggling with the reins. Lina panted, watching his progress, and nodded to herself when he managed to make the turn at the end of the street that would lead him to Watson's practice. 

Dropping the whip to the ground, she hurried back into the house, oblivious to the open-mouthed stares of the gathered crowd that had watched the exchange. 

Taking the stairs two at the time, she felt tears gathering behind her eyes, but she gulped them back, and until Doctor Watson arrived, remained on the bed next to Rhiannon, holding her lover's lifeless hand in her own. 

CHAPTER THREE

London, England
April 1890

The two women were in the cozy confines of the study having tea when the crisis erupted. The smell of sugared oranges brought back memories of Egypt - and for a moment, Rhiannon found herself back in that cave, reliving the horror, seeing Victoire's feral smile looming up from the darkness. 

She began sobbing uncontrollably, tears streaming down her face. Lina tossed her teacup down with a clatter and immediately pulled the smaller woman into a tight embrace, stroking her back gently. 

After a while, Rhiannon finally stopped crying and lifted her face from Lina's shoulder. ''I... I'm sorry,'' she blurted. 

''Shhhh... it is quite all right, my dear,'' Lina soothed, wiping Rhiannon's face with a handkerchief. ''Here, blow your nose, sweet.'' She gave her lover a smile and was rewarded with a slightly blurry one in return. 

Rhiannon blew her nose delicately then dabbed at her eyes. ''I just... sometimes it's all right. I don't think about it as much anymore. But it just comes back, all of it, all at once, and I can't...'' 

''Surely you remember what Doctor O'Bannon told you.'' Lina stroked the smaller woman's hair. ''If you need to cry, then cry. If you need to talk about it, then do so. I am here. I love you and I want... no, I need to help. Do not shut me out again, I beg you.'' 

''You're right. I'm sorry.'' Rhiannon sighed. 

''Do not apologize again!'' Lina pressed her wife's head back down on her shoulder and hugged her tightly. ''You have nothing to be sorry for, my dear. NOTHING! Remember that, I beg you.'' 

Rhiannon nodded, snuggling her face against the peer's throat. Doctor Graham O'Bannon was an alienist; after her attempted suicide, Lina had forced her to see him. Oh, she'd fought hysterically, and even now after several months her face still colored in shame over her antics. It had taken Lina's threatening to leave her to her own devices - even going so far as to have her maid Solange begin packing trunks - to get her to go. 

Through her own extremity, she'd finally realized the depths to which she'd driven her beloved. Lina had gone on a drunken spree in Cairo when Rhiannon had abandoned her, however briefly - so great had been her despair over losing the woman she loved so desperately. 

For Lina to actually contemplate leaving... well, Rhiannon had at last understood that if she wanted to save her marriage and her sanity, she had to do something. But she still hadn't liked it. 

She'd been sullen, uncooperative, even defiant. But Doctor O'Bannon had patiently drawn her out, his Scottish burr chipping away at her defenses until he'd exposed the festering wound that had driven her to such an extremity as suicide. 

Rhiannon still remembered that afternoon. 

She'd had an argument with Lina -  a screaming, vicious attack on her part; sheer frustration on Lina's. They had parted with cold words, and Rhiannon had seethed and fumed all the way to O'Bannon's office on Harley Street. 

Once there, she had flung herself down and begun babbling, eventually realizing with a growing sense of shock that she was blaming Lina for everything that had happened to her. A bitter flood of recriminations and accusations poured from her lips and she was powerless to stop it - nor had she really wanted to. 

When she'd finished, however, panting for breath, fingers clutching the chair arms in a white-knuckled grip, face wet with angry tears, she felt as if some immense burden had been lifted from her shoulders; she felt empty, drained... and then filled with guilt. She'd begun to cry again, great racking sobs convulsing her body, as O'Bannon began questioning her softly. 

It had taken several months of twice weekly sessions with the alienist, but from that afternoon, Rhiannon never looked back. O'Bannon had made her see that she had, in the hidden depths of her mind, considered Lina to blame for her ordeal. It was truly a terrible conflict that had caused her deep depression and attempt at suicide. 

For how could she voice recriminations, how could she possibly cast blame upon her beloved when Rhiannon had begged, pleaded, threatened and ultimately, driven her lover almost to the brink in order to force Lina into accepting her as an equal in all things, including investigations which might involve life-threatening danger. When Rhiannon had been so insistent that Lina stop protecting her, believing that her lover's obsession with her safety was degrading and patronizing. 

Then - after all the old arguments were over, after all the threats and ultimatums were finished - when Rhiannon finally got her own way at last, Victoire's evil nearly destroyed both women. 

Who was to blame? 

No one. And everyone. Or so her hidden mind insisted. 

That was the key. Once Rhiannon understood and accepted the conflict, once she'd dealt with the guilt and self-hatred, once she'd broken through the shell of denial, she was finally able to get up the courage to move on. 

Rhiannon felt better and grew stronger day by day. Sometimes, a smell or a sound would abruptly cast her back to that time of pain and degradation... but those frightening flashbacks were growing less and less frequent. 

Thank God for Doctor O'Bannon, Rhiannon thought. And thank God for Lina. Her love has been my salvation.

O'Bannon had seen Lina as well, explaining what Rhiannon was going through, how she felt, what had caused her suicide attempt... and the peer had very nearly collapsed in grief and horror. She'd gone herself to see the alienist on her own behalf, trying to deal with her own load of self-recrimination and guilt. 

It hadn't been easy; sometimes, the house had seemed more like a pair of armed camps laboring beneath a temporary, tentative truce. The tension had been wire-taut and as fraught with danger as an unstable explosive. Arguments had been frequent, tears even more so. 

But they were past all that now. 

The two women had spent hours alone together, just talking, and not always about the events in Egypt. Rhiannon's nightmares had diminished; the angry red scars on her wrists were concealed beneath wide gold bracelets Lina had bought after the strawberry-blonde had unconsciously picked at the healing wounds until they bled. 

The love they shared was stronger and more profound than ever, the tribulations and trials they had endured only serving to draw them closer together. 

They were scarred... but they had passed through the fires together and were whole once more. 

CHAPTER FOUR

The storm of tears over and calm restored, Lina nestled Rhiannon in her lap, sniffing her hair with pleasure, hands stroking the other woman's back and shoulders. Her lover had regained some of the weight she'd lost, no longer looking so much like an animated skeleton, but Cook still labored over elaborate concoctions to tempt the strawberry blonde's appetite. 

''Well, my dear," Lina said softly, "if you are agreeable, I believe you and I can attend a small soiree which should be pleasantly amusing.'' 

''What's that?'' Rhiannon kissed Lina's ear, wondering what on earth she could be talking about. They had never attended a formal social occasion; Lina's invitations came almost by rote, her wealth and title the only two things that permitted even the possibility of such a scandalous woman entering into London's social whirl. 

Lina, considering most of her peers to be hypocritical, small minded idiots, always declined. No one expected her to attend anyway; sending Lady St. Claire an invitation was nothing more than a polite formality - and the lady liked to keep it that way. 

''I recently received an invitation to an exhibition at Blackpoole's," Lina said. "I thought we might attend, if the idea does not altogether put you off." 

"When is it?" Rhiannon asked. "And what sort of exhibition is it? Not those dull landscapes artists, I hope! If I'm forced to admire those beastly forests primeval, I swear I'll go mad!" She laughed when Lina wrinkled her nose. 

"Not at all, my dear! I understand that Mister Blackpoole is opening up a new wing to his gallery, built especially to house phantasms, fairies and other fantastic art. You know the subject has become quite popular in recent times. Every dowager dame must have a host of wee folk staring goggle eyed down at her dinner guests. Ugh!" 

She shivered before continuing, " At any rate, I thought you and I might attend this soiree, if only to shake up the aristocracy and cause collective apoplexy when the two most vilified women in London dare to show their sinful and unrepentant faces at the social event of the season!" 

Rhiannon laughed again. "Well, I can take it if you can, love." She gracefully slid off Lina's lap and crossed the room, stopping to look out of the window while she poured herself another cup of tea. "I suppose since we've exhausted the theater, the museums, shops and other points of interest, you'll stoop to any means to get me out of the house." 

"A nice outing will do you a world of good. If the artist's offerings are not up to your exacting standards, I shall amuse you by whispering the latest London gossip behind my fan." Lina smiled. "It is amazing how the aristocracy manages to fit their hats so well, considering they all possess two faces. When they require my discreet services, they are all 'if you please' and 'your humble servant.' But when the possibility of scandal has passed, the hypocrites look upon me much as they would a dog dropping accidentally trodden on in the street." 

"Really, Lina! Is it so bad?" 

"Of course, my dear." Lina stroked a stray ebony curl back into place. "However, I am quite thick skinned and determined not to allow cold shoulders to spoil my fun." 

Rhiannon grinned. "You don't think they'll throw stones, do you?" she teased. 

"Hardly," Lina answered dryly. "More likely stony stares. None of them have the courage to face me outright; they shall no doubt rely instead upon the exquisite manners hammered into them by their nannies." 

She got up off the couch and went to join Rhiannon at the window. "The exhibition is next Saturday evening, my dear. Are you up to facing the combined disapproval of a hundred Earls?" 

"With you at my side? Always!" Rhiannon took a sip of tea. "Do you think the art will be of the children's nursery variety?" 

Lina shook her head, putting an arm around her lover's shoulders. "My dear, no doubt it will be more horrible than even I can possibly imagine." 

Sugar-coated pixies and pastel elves cavorting in a toadstool glade... 

Add to that the possibility of being snubbed by every important and influential peer and member of the Court that existed. 

Plus the possibility - however remote - that Lina might become incensed and challenge the lot of those well-fed and well-bred aristocrats to a duel muscular... 

And Rhiannon thought she'd probably have either a wonderful time, or face an evening of nightmarish proportions.

CHAPTER FIVE

Rhiannon was lost to the world, transfixed by the painting in front of her.

Lina frowned. "My dear? I do believe you have not heard a word I have spoken in the last five minutes!"

She glanced down at Rhiannon. The smaller woman was dressed in a black satin gown that made the most of her strawberry-blonde coloring; jet beads picked up the light and gleamed in vaguely sinister patterns on the gown's bodice and skirt. She wore a silver collar of pearls, opals and turquoise, with matching earrings and a high comb that shimmered in the gaslight. 

Lina absently acknowledged a cold nod given to her by a uniformed Duke and poked her lover lightly in the ribs. "My dear!'' she hissed. "Do you wish me to continue my anecdote regarding Lord St. James and the music hall monkey or have you lost yourself in art entirely?"

Startled, Rhiannon's eyes flew wide open and she focused on her waiting wife. "Oh! I'm terribly sorry, love! I just..." She waved a gloved hand helplessly at the painting. "Have you looked at it? I mean, really looked at it?''

Lina sighed. "No, I admit I have not paid strict attention to Mister Blackpoole's offerings. I have been far too busy trying to stay off incipient boredom and keep you entertained." Her smile took the sting out of the words. "If you are more intrigued by a work of art than by the laboriously gathered gossip I have acquired... by all means, impart to me your observations on the painting in question."

Rhiannon's gaze strayed back to the framed canvas. "It's just... well, fascinating is the only way I can describe it. All those tiny figures drawn so cleverly! Look, here's one having a bath... here's another sitting in a bird's nest with an egg. If I stared at this all day, I probably couldn't list all the details! Oh, look! A wee procession of elf lords! Isn't that cunning!"

Lina drew closer. "Here's the artist's name." She indicated the brass plaque fastened to the wall beneath the painting. "S.H. Moon. I have never heard of the fellow but one presumes he must have a reputation of some sort in order to be included in Blackpoole's. Perhaps he is one of those Bohemians one hears so much about. Wait a moment, the name is familiar but I cannot place it."

She broke off to snatch a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. Ignoring Rhiannon's pursed lips, Lina took a sip and continued, "S.H. Moon... obviously talented, even if I find his subject matter somewhat deplorable. I wonder if he is related to the Benjamin Moon's of Upper Canterbury."

"I don't care who he is!" Rhiannon lowered her voice when a full-bosomed dowager whipped up a lorgnette and gave her a basilisk glare. "I like the painting, I don't want to marry the fellow. And drink only the one glass, mind. Don't get carried away." She added suspiciously, "You've haven't been guzzling champagne all night, have you?"

"Good God!" Lina pressed a hand to her bosom theatrically. "I certainly hope not! One sips Dom Perignon; one hardly guzzles such an ambrosial beverage!"

She stooped down a little to whisper in Rhiannon's ear, "Although our physical relationship may be tolerated as long as it is not thrust into everyone's faces, if it were found out that I had committed the ultimate transgression against the peerage - swilling a fine champagne as if it were common stout - I would no doubt be tarred, feathered and strung up on the walls of Buckingham Palace as an object lesson."

Rhiannon giggled. "All right, no need to get sarcastic, love. I just..."

"You worry." Lina grinned. "I worry. If all we have to worry about is each other, I would say that we were trouble-free, indeed."

Rhiannon surreptitiously grabbed Lina's gloved hand and gave it a squeeze. "I do love you so, Lady St. Claire."

"And I love you."

After a moment of happy silence, Rhiannon sighed and said, "If it isn't too terribly expensive - the painting, I mean - do you think...?"

"My dear, if it appeals to you so much, of course you shall have it! Wait here a moment; I will fetch Mister Blackpoole in order to transact our business. Perhaps he can also enlighten us as to the identity of the mysterious Mister Moon."

Rhiannon watched Lina push through the crowd. The other woman's dress of raspberry silk dripped with swags of crystal-beaded fringe; the puffed net sleeves were decorated with tiny chips of ruby glass and small white feathers. A platinum hair slide had been fastened to one side of her elaborately braided coiffure; white ostrich feathers curved from temple to cheek, giving Lina a coquettish air and contrasting starkly with the darkness of her hair.

In a few moments, the peer returned, clutching the arm of Mister Alphonse Blackpoole, owner of the prestigious Blackpoole Gallery and a renowned art expert in his own right.

Once the necessary introductions had been made, Rhiannon asked, "Do you know this artist, sir? I notice this is the only one of his works on display tonight." 

"That is correct, Miss Moore," Blackpoole replied, peering at the painting through the pince-nez perched on his nose. "I fear this was the only work he produced, poor chap. Took him nearly two decades to finish it, too." 

"Really?" Rhiannon took in the painting with new appreciation. Twenty years!

"Yes. Sebastian Harrington Moon. He died several months ago while serving a life sentence in St. Catherine's Hospital." Blackpoole's brown eyes were nearly hidden by bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows that seemed to have been given license to grow wild across his lined forehead. "It was... hmph. I believe it was back in the '70's that the crime took place, Miss." 

"Crime?" Now Lina had become interested. "Can you elaborate?" When the art dealer gave her a sharp glance, Lina hastily added, "My companion and I are quite curious about the artist's background. When one makes such a substantial investment, one does like to keep au courant on the creator." 

Blackpoole chewed his mustache for a moment before relenting. It was clear he was reluctant to dredge up a sordid story for fear of losing the sale. "Very well. If you must know - damned female curiosity! - Sebastian Moon was sentenced to the sanitarium for murder. The man might have been criminally insane, but he was a talented artist, and his unfortunate circumstance does not in any way undermine the value of his painting." 

Rhiannon and Lina exchanged a glance.  It appeared that their evening was about to get far more interesting than mere champagne and caviar could provide. 

CHAPTER SIX

Blackpoole heaved a sigh. A tightly-laced dowager, whose immense bosom seemed to balloon up until it nearly met her chin, was signaling him with a fluttering handkerchief. "Ladies," he said, "my business calls. If you would care to call upon me tomorrow afternoon, it will be my pleasure to give you all the information I can regarding Moon and this painting." 

"What's the title of the piece?" Rhiannon asked impetuously. 

"The Changeling's Moon," Blackpoole answered. "A queer choice, perhaps, but one can hardly argue with artistic types or expect them to adhere to common sense." He sighed again; the dowager's signals were becoming more imperious. "I really must beg my leave of you. Should you still desire to purchase the painting, one of my assistants will be more than happy to aid you." 

With that, the art dealer left, mopping beads of sweat from his creased brow. 

Lina looked at Rhiannon. "Are you still itching with acquisitiveness, my dear? If so, let us seek out this assistant before your prize is snatched away beneath your nose by another appreciator." 

"I think..." Rhiannon glanced at the painting again; it seemed to call to her with an eerie aura that both fascinated and repelled. Whoever this Sebastian Moon had been, he'd clearly been a genius. "Yes! I want it," Rhiannon replied, tilting her head up to flash a broad smile at her lover. "If the price isn't..." 

"My dearest, sweetest love, your bank account is quite healthy. As is mine." Lina smiled back. "I realize you prefer to pinch every pence till it squeals - when it comes to yourself, that is! - but really, a treat now and again will hardly cast you back into penury. If you feel the painting comes too dear, I shall be pleased to purchase it for you myself." 

"No." Rhiannon blushed slightly; she knew that her late Great-Aunt's legacy had left her tolerably wealthy, but the habits of a lifetime - those of a penniless tutor's daughter and ex-prostitute - were difficult to break. Lina often teased her for her miserly tendencies; curiously enough, when it came to presents for her lover or their servants, she was open-handed with a vengeance. 

"It's all right, love," Rhiannon said, straightening her shining black skirts with a flick of her wrist and assuming a more erect bearing. "Come on; let's find that assistant. I want The Changeling's Moon and I'm going to have it!" 

"Excellent!" Lina stifled a chuckle at Rhiannon's near military bearing and took her lover's arm, guiding her through the crowd and seeming not to notice how the ladies drew back the skirts of their gowns as the pair passed, as if fearing they would be soiled by the two unwelcome women's contaminating presence. 

Eventually, the haggard assistant was pried away from the clutches of a silly young socialite and her uniformed escort and Rhiannon quickly finished the transaction, making arrangements for the painting to be delivered to their home in Grosvenor Square. 

That done, she sighed. "Should we stay a while longer?'' Rhiannon asked. 

"I think not, my dear," came the reply. Lina was staring down a monacled lord who had just made some uncomplimentary remarks to his wife in what he obviously considered a discreet whisper. Unfortunately for the lord, the ebony-haired peer had excellent hearing... and she'd had enough irritation for one night. 

"I do not quite take your meaning, sir," Lina said loudly, green eyes snapping with ire. She opened her fan and pretended to peer innocently at the suddenly quiet and attentive crowd. "What, pray tell, is a 'filthy tribade?' And since my governess apparently neglected a portion of my education, would you be so kind as to define the term, 'cunny,' and why I should be interested in 'lapping' it? Some exotic dessert, perhaps?" 

The lord suddenly appeared to take an absorbing interest in his shoes, but the rising flush that crept up his cheeks soon caused his hairless dome to shine a brilliant crimson. 

Despite the indrawn, shocked breaths of bystanders, the lord's wife - a bone-thin matron whose bodice was quivering with indignation - opened her heavily rouged lips to let out a blistering reply. Lina's timely interruption caused whatever remarks she was about to emit to die withering in her throat. 

"As to other matters, can anyone tell me what a 'wooden priapus' is and why anyone - particularly I, a gently reared lady - should be required to 'thrust it into that red-head whore in a pathetic attempt to prove oneself a man?' Why, a wooden priapus sounds more like a tool of the common man rather than a gentleman's apparatus!" Lina's smile was more like a snarl of fury, and everyone drew back a pace at the sight. 

By this time, some of the more heavily corseted ladies - whose well-fed physiques caused their wasp-waisted forms to look positively grotesque, their bodies resembling two enormously inflated balloons joined in the middle by a thin rod - began to faint, their escorts frantically waving fans and applying smelling salts. 

Flicking her raspberry silk skirts disdainfully, Lina sniffed and concluded, "Alas, my dear! We have obviously fallen in with an ill-bred crowd, indeed! Such language - although I do not pretend to understand it at all - is more the province of a Billingsgate fishwife than members of the honorable peerage. Come; allow me to see you away from this apparent den of iniquity and thence, to home, where we shall enjoy the felicity of one another's company... that being the sole delight of an otherwise dull and inhospitable evening among snide, spiteful cowards whose actions belie the supposed blueness of their blood." 

With that parting shot, Lina hooked her arm through Rhiannon's and glided away, the crowd parting to allow them through without hindrance. 

Only Rhiannon noticed the small, secret smile that wreathed one young lady's features as they marched proudly out of the door and into the starlit night. 

It wasn't until they were well on their way home that Rhiannon realized they'd left their wraps at Blackpoole's. 

Lina refused to turn around and retrieve them. "What?" she said, body swaying slightly as they jolted along. "Go back and spoil the finest exit line since the incomparable Bernhardt?" Her teeth glittered in the faint light that penetrated the comforting darkness of the carriage. "I do believe it is the first time I have caused a mass fainting of the ladies since I scandalized the guests at my debut by appearing in a gentleman's tuxedo instead of the frilly gown my mother chose." 

Rhiannon laughed for a moment, then sobered. "You know you haven't made any friends tonight. Perhaps even some enemies." She leaned forward and took one of Lina's hands. "Was it wise, confronting them all like that?" 

"Wise? No. Necessary? Yes!" Lina took the jade and platinum cigarette case out of her reticule and lit one of the brown Egyptian cigarettes she preferred, the flaring light of the lucifer illuminating her features briefly. 

Exhaling a cloud of smoke, the peer continued, "I am not sure what I expected to come of this night's work, my dear. I should know by now that the approval of my social peers is simply not possible, due to the choices I have made about my life. But I could hardly allow such insults to pass, particularly since the lord in question - Sir Ernest Christopher - came to me not two years ago seeking my assistance in the matter of his involvement with a Parisian ballet dancer... and I do not mean a personage of the female variety, either." 

It took Rhiannon a moment to comprehend what Lina was saying. "You mean, he's..." 

"Yes." Lina smoked in silence a moment, then drew aside the sash at the window and flicked her cigarette out. "If there is anything I despise beyond all else, it is hypocrisy. Had Sir Christopher not made his remarks within my hearing - and also the hearing of others, my dear! - I would have allowed it to pass. But he chose to make all too public what has been whispered in private... and so I was forced to put him back in his place." 

"What difference does it make, what they say about us in public or what they gossip about around the tea table?" 

Lina huddled down into her seat. "If I do not hear it, although I know it to be said privately, it does not hurt me as much. Or you, for that matter. It is when such matters are waved beneath my nose, I have no choice but to respond. Besides... Christopher's behavior was really beyond the bounds of polite convention. I have no doubt it is he who will be ostracized for some time... not for what he said, but for being indiscreet enough and careless enough to allow me to overhear it." 

Rhiannon sighed. "He'll be punished because he dared to remove the mask of propriety and show the rotten maliciousness beneath. I'm not sure I'll ever understand the aristocracy, love!" She rubbed her forehead. "But I know I didn't like what they said or how they acted." 

"Neither did I, my dear. Neither did I." 

"If they'd ignored us, that would have been all right." 

"Would it?" Lina stared out into the darkness. "Perhaps you are correct. Being nonexistent is infinitely better than being openly despised." 

Rhiannon had no answer for that except, "You knew it would happen. From the moment we began living together openly." 

"Of course. Oh, do not misunderstand, my dear! I willingly endure all the slings and arrows of my fellows, and worse besides, because I am not ashamed of you or our love. Let them speak as they will! Let them hurl their filth and point the finger of disdain! Let them whisper in parlors or shout it aloud to the treetops... as long as we are together, what real harm can they do?" 

Rhiannon felt her heart skip a beat. "I love you, Lina." 

"I love you as well, Rhiannon." Lina sat up and rapped the carriage ceiling. "Driver! A little more speed, if you please!" 

As the carriage lurched then began moving at a faster rate, Lina carefully slid off her own seat and wriggled her way next to Rhiannon. Putting an arm around the smaller woman, she kissed her. 

Rhiannon pressed herself against her lover, mentally cursing the narrow confines of the carriage. 

The two remained close, kissing and caressing, all the way home. 

CHAPTER SEVEN

The following afternoon, the lady and her companion were seated in Mister Blackpoole's private office. 

The art dealer didn't look happy to see them - his grand exhibition and opening had been all but ruined by Lady St. Claire's scandalous behavior - but it was clear that he at least intended to honor his promise... probably with an eye to further sales. He might not like what Lina was or what she represented - he most certainly found Rhiannon's presence an uncomfortable reminder of subjects better left unexplored - but he wasn't fool enough to jeopardize the future custom of two ladies of wealth and means. 

"Now, I believe you were interested in the subject of Sebastian Moon," Blackpoole began, ruffling some papers on his desk, then paused and glanced up. "I trust the painting you purchased was delivered this morning? I'm afraid I did not quite anticipate such an enthusiastic response to my little collection. We have all been at sixes and sevens, especially since some of my less experienced clerks made some unfortunate mistakes in paperwork." 

Rhiannon smiled. "I received it this morning, thank you. Although I'm still trying to decide where to hang it." 

"Many of my customers face similar agonies." Blackpoole returned Rhiannon's smile; if his was a bit artificial and chilly, neither lady chose to comment. "On to business, then." 

Rhiannon removed the small notepad and silver pencil from the pocket of her gray-and-navy blue checked visiting gown and began to take notes while the art dealer told his tale. 

"Sebastian Harrington Moon was the second son of Sir Arthur Moon, the industrialist. You may be familiar with his elder brother - Sir Bartholomew Bluestroke Moon is a very respected member of the House of Lords and one of the wealthiest men in England." 

Lina nodded. "His reputation is formidable. I have no personal admiration for the man - he advocates public floggings via horsewhip for Suffragettes and was one of those who supported the horrible force-feeding program for those ladies who fast in protest - yet I cannot claim him to be a coward. He offered to personally lead forces to aid the gallant 'Chinese' Gordon when he was besieged at Khartoum. And his foreign policy is sound. As one of the personal advisors to Her Majesty, I owe him respect... even when our opinions on policy violently disagree." 

"Quite." Blackpoole seemed at a loss but rallied; it was clear he hadn't expected such a well considered response. "At any rate, young Sebastian lived with his brother, mother and father in Mayfair. His mother - Lady Amanda Moon - died when Sebastian was but ten years old." 

The art dealer's voice sank to a near whisper. "I've heard rumors that lady Amanda was mad. Perhaps this was the hereditary origin of Sebastian's own madness, perhaps not." 

His voice rose once more to conversational level. "While I do not possess many details, I can tell you that Sebastian Moon was, by all accounts, prone to a certain mania. When he was happy, all the world was not large enough to contain his joy. But all too soon, he would sink into the blackest depression, only to rise again. When he was twenty, Sebastian moved out of his father's house and into his own flat, where he painted for four years. Unfortunately, these efforts bore little fruit. Then, in 1870, I believe, Sebastian murdered his father with a palette knife and fled for France. He was apprehended at Calais and sentenced to be confined in a sanitarium. Bartholomew Moon paid for his brother to be kept at St. Catherine's, where for twenty years Sebastian worked on the singular painting purchased by Miss Moore. He died of influenza a few months ago." 

Judging from Blackpoole's expression, that was the end of his information. Rhiannon nevertheless asked, "How did you come to possess the painting, sir?" 

The art dealer was surprised but recovered quickly. "A friend of mine was shown the painting by one of the hospital's attendants. Knowing as he did of my intention to create an exhibition of such works, he contacted me immediately. According to the attendant..." He broke off and consulted a small slip of paper. "Ah. Mister Basil Appleford. Appleford showed me a 'will' that had been made out by Moon before his death, bequeathing the painting and his few possessions to Appleford. After consulting with my solicitor - who assured me that the will was completely valid - I purchased the painting. Here is the receipt, if you wish to examine it." 

He offered the paper, which both Rhiannon and Lina looked at carefully. Written in a careless hand on thin, cheap paper, it merely stated that Basil Appleford had sold the painting to Blackpoole for the sum of one hundred pounds. 

Rhiannon glanced up at Blackpoole. "One hundred pounds? I paid considerably more." 

Blackpoole spread his hands apart in apology. "It is a seller's market, Miss. Such artworks are in high demand, but alas! in few supply. I took considerable trouble to obtain the work in question; is it not meet and just that I show a profit for my efforts?" 

Lina stifled a chuckle at Rhiannon's outraged expression. "My dear, you cannot argue with the long established tenants of capitalism." 

Rhiannon relaxed a trifle and returned the paper to the art dealer. "Didn't his brother object? After all, I assume Sir Bartholomew would have wanted some kind of remembrance of his poor sibling." 

"In point of fact, Sir Bartholomew approached me shortly after I obtained the painting. However, the price he offered was rather low and he refused to make a higher bid. So I decided to exhibit it at my soiree and seek a more - shall we say - open-handed owner." 

Rhiannon's lip crinkled but she didn't comment. 

Lina fussed with the strings of her reticule a moment before saying, "Thank you, Mister Blackpoole. We certainly appreciate your taking the trouble to give us this little history lesson, particularly in view of your own extremely busy concerns. Good day." 

Blackpoole rose politely, giving each lady a little bow. "It was my pleasure,'' he said. "And dare I hope that you charming ladies will grace my next soiree?" 

Rhiannon paused in the action of adjusting her ribbon trimmed hat. "Perhaps,'' she said coolly. "If your taste in invited guests improves to the point of having civilized people attend." 

Blackpoole stared as the two women swept from his office. 

Then he collected himself and returned to his paperwork with a sigh, making a mental note to tell his secretary to strike Lady St. Claire and her... companion... from the guest list forever. 

After all, a respectable art dealer such as himself could hardly afford another such scandal. 

What a shameful waste of female loveliness and grace! 

On the other hand, considering the icy blue eyes and cold stare of Miss Moore, as well as the formidable size, beastly reputation and poisonous tongue of Lady St. Claire... well, a man would be better off bedding a fanged serpent - and be less likely to sustain injury. 

CHAPTER EIGHT

When they arrived home, Lina and Rhiannon immediately secluded themselves in the study to go over their notes. 

The painting was propped up on Lina's massive mahogany desk; the rococo gilt frame gleamed faintly in the darkened and subdued atmosphere of the room. 

As soon as they entered, Rhiannon busied herself in removing gloves and hat, flinging both onto a nearby chair. Next, she walked to the sidebar where she fixed herself a small sherry. Although Rhiannon rarely drank alcoholic beverages, Lina had recently discovered a sweet Spanish sherry that was very much to the smaller woman's taste. Still, she only indulged occasionally. 

"My dear?'' Lina asked. "Has your appetite been whetted by Mister Blackpoole's account or...?" 

"No, it hasn't." Rhiannon sat down on a fringed ottoman in front of the desk and looked at The Changeling's Moon. Her half-filled glass dangled from one hand. "I mean, why did Sebastian kill his father? Why did it take him twenty years to make one painting? Was his mother really mad? How did she die? There are so many questions, I hardly know where to begin!" 

"Hmph." Lina sat down on the sofa and spent a few moments reading Rhiannon's notes. "Well, we have a number of choices. We can investigate Moon's family life, his mother, father and so on. Or we can begin at St. Catherine's; hopefully, Appleford is still employed by the hospital and willing to speak to us. Or we can begin with Arthur Moon's murder. Or..." 

Rhiannon held up her free hand. "Stop, please!" she said with a giggle. "My father always said that one should begin at the beginning. So I suppose that means we must found out what we can of Sebastian's family life, particularly his mother and father." 

"Well enough." Lina rose from the couch and quickly scribbled a note. "We shall consult Holmes." 

"I don't think that's wise, love." Rhiannon sipped her sherry. "You know he was very ill only recently, then with all the horrible goings-on at Wisteria Lodge. I called on Doctor Watson earlier in the week and he expressed his extreme concern. Mister Holmes has been practically shackled to the bed and Watson is refusing to allow him to work at all until he's recovered." 

"I see." Lina put down her pen. "I had hoped to raid Holmes' encyclopedia for information, but it seems we must consult another source." 

"I have a suggestion," Rhiannon offered diffidently. It wasn't often that she was in a position to "upstage" Lina, as it were. "I know a gentleman who works for The Times. Maybe we can get in to see the morgue and look at some back issues. Surely, the death of Lady Amanda would have been in the news, much less the death of a wealthy and powerful man like Sir Arthur." 

Lina looked at her lover with astonishment. "You know a gentleman at The Times?" Her green eyes narrowed. "Who is he, pray?" She did not - dared not! - ask what sort of connection Rhiannon had with the unknown man, but she felt a huge lump settle itself in her chest and squeeze her heart until she felt breathless with jealousy and pain. 

If Rhiannon noticed anything unusual, she didn't let on. "I met him when I was 'working' in Whitechapel. He used to hang about the pubs, chatting up the ladies. He's the one who ruined the Earl of Dunkenny when it came out that he'd contracted an unmentionable disease from a fourteen-year-old girl who worked at the Crib, remember?" 

Lina nodded. It had been an enormous scandal at the time; the Crib was a notorious house of ill repute that specialized in offering the favors of underage girls and boys to those whose tastes ran to such things. The Earl had committed suicide the morning the story broke, preferring to blow his brains out at his club rather than face public ridicule and shame. 

Rhiannon continued. "At any rate, he's now a well respected gentleman at the newspaper. His name's Benjamin Salt. I'm sure he'll remember me and besides, he owes me a favor." 

Lina's eyes narrowed further until they were mere slits. "Really?'' she purred. "What sort of favor, my dear?" 

"I was the one who introduced him to poor Mina, the Crib girl." Rhiannon finished her sherry and plunked the glass down. "I hated that horrid place and I especially hated the men who went there. I'm glad it was closed down by the police." 

She rose from the ottoman and crossed the room to sit beside Lina. "Shall we go see Mister Salt before dinner?" She shifted her position until she was seated in Lina's lap, arms around her lover's neck. 

Lina nodded again, feeling the constriction in her chest ease somewhat. The strangling tightness returned immediately when Rhiannon said carelessly, "I liked Benjamin. He was a good friend to us girls, treated us like real ladies. And he gave good tips, too! We had a lot of fun, he and I. It'll be just like old times, seeing him again. I loved him so much... I'm sorry I haven't let him know where I'm living now." 

The fuming Lina held Rhiannon, who chattered away, oblivious to the fact that Lina wasn't listening. Her thoughts were far away, seething in an acid-green pool of jealousy. 

Love? LOVE?!! What is this stranger to her? Is it to be as I have always secretly feared... my dearest love falling for a gentleman's charms? Oh, God... I will kill him first! No... I have never dared admit it to myself before, but I have seen the coveting looks Rhiannon receives from men, appreciating glances from males of every sort, chimney sweeps to members of Parliament.

She knew this man when she was a prostitute. Granted, I knew she had 'business relations' with gentlemen when I met her - unavoidable in her position! - but I never gave the matter much consideration.

I lie to myself.

It has always disturbed me, despite my best efforts. Wondering if she finds my embraces repugnant, insufficient, far less appealing than those of a man. No! No! It cannot be! The passion I feel from her cannot be counterfeit; the desire in her eyes must be real. The connection between us has survived so much; how could it be broken by a mere reunion with a man whom Rhiannon has never mentioned before, and so therefore cannot be of much import!

She loves me... I trust in that.

And yet...

Her thoughts continued to circle round and round one another in dizzying confusion. 

For her part, Rhiannon didn't notice that anything was wrong, until they made their unannounced arrival at Benjamin Salt's office at The Times.

CHAPTER NINE

Benjamin Salt was a handsome gentleman in his thirties with sandy blonde hair and eyes so blue they seemed to have been formed from bits of stolen sky. When the two women entered his office, he gasped, rose and hastened around his desk. 

"Miss Rhiannon!'' he said, features wreathed in a huge smile. "Sugarbaby! My God! It's been too long!" 

He flung his arms around her and squeezed tight, his mustache tickling her ear. Before the strawberry-blonde could say a word, Benjamin bussed her vigorously on the lips several times, saying between kisses, "I've... missed... you... woman!" 

At last, Rhiannon was able to get in a word. "Benjamin!" she said, pulling away slightly but keeping both hands on his shoulders. "I missed you, too! My, but you've certainly become a fashionable gentleman since we last met!" 

Benjamin kept an arm around Rhiannon, much to Lina's hidden fury. "Yes, I'm afraid that since I've been promoted to the higher offices, a sedate heather tweed is more appreciated than the loudly checked monstrosities I used to wear. And speaking of fashionable- you've come up in the world yourself, if I'm not mistaken." 

Rhiannon stepped out of his embrace and pirouetted, her skirts belling out as she spun around. "You wouldn't believe it, Benjamin. It's like Cinderella, really! I've found my very own white knight at last." 

For the first time, the gentleman noticed Lina, who was standing so silently and still she might have been a statue - except for the tiny tremors that shook her arms as she wrestled with the near overwhelming desire to crush Benjamin Salt like an egg. 

"And this charming lady must be Lady Evangeline St. Claire," Benjamin said, eyeing the slightly trembling and unusually tall beauty with concern. He hoped she wasn't prone to fits, although from the way he'd heard she put one in the eye of Lord Ernest Christopher at the Blackpoole's opening, she didn't seem the type to suffer from hysteria. 

Biggest private scandal of the decade, that, he thought. By God! I wish I'd been there to applaud the downfall of Sir Christopher the Monumental Prig.

"Oh!" Rhiannon reached out and patted Lina's arm. "You're right. She rescued me from Whitechapel. I live with her and we're..." Almost imperceptibly she paused, then continued proudly, "we're lovers. See?" She displayed her left hand; prominent on her ring finger was the great phoenix ring Lina had given her as a wedding pledge. 

Of course, Benjamin knew all about it - at least, he'd heard all the gossip and rumors - but he decided not to elaborate. 

He whistled in appreciation, raising a blonde brow as he grasped Rhiannon's offered hand and examined the ring. "Lucky girl! So that's what happened to you! I was half afraid something awful had occurred when you disappeared, especially with all that Ripper business down in Whitechapel. Nobody knew where Sugarbaby had gone. I admit I've thought that the gorgeous red-headed wench described as the notorious Lady St. Claire's lover might have been my Sugarbaby, but I wasn't sure. And given the lady's reputation - she does like her privacy, doesn't she! - I didn't think it prudent to pay a call, particularly given my profession." 

He smiled brilliantly at the still silent peer. "The last journalist who attempted to interview you ended up with a broken nose. I trust you treat our little Rhiannon more gently, Lady St. Claire?" he teased. 

Lina gave him a cold glance from eyes that were as hard and crystalline as the emeralds they resembled. "What business is that of yours, Mister Salt?" she replied in a freezing tone. 

Rhiannon looked up at Lina, surprised. "What's wrong, love?'' she asked softly. 

At last, Lina could contain herself no longer. The scenarios that she had constructed within her imagination had not equaled the agonizing sight of her Rhiannon joyously throwing herself into the arms of another... and that other a man, no less! Rage boiled up; she yielded restraint and let caution fly to the winds. 

"Wrong? Why, nothing is wrong!'' she spat violently. "You bring me here to see your ex-lover - practically bragging of the fact, no less! - and embrace him with such excesses that I am near to being ill! It is obvious that you have pined for his wretched company. It is equally obvious that you consider your liaison with me to be an odious and unwelcome one. Well, I wish you luck of him, my dear! Good-bye!" 

As the infuriated and tearful peer turned to go, she was halted in her tracks by an unexpected sound. Benjamin Salt was laughing, huge belly-wrenching guffaws that threatened to burst his waistcoat. "Oh, my dear, sweet Jesus!" he managed to gasp after a few moments, "What have you been telling her, girl?" 

Rhiannon looked from Benjamin - helpless in the throes of a laughing fit - to Lina, who stood stock still, unsure how to react. Her pale blue eyes began to glow with anger. "Evangeline!'' she said forcefully, causing the peer to flinch. "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" 

Lina was confused. "Rhiannon, all you told me about this fellow and particularly the way you greeted one another led me to believe that he... that you... that the two of you were..." Her voice trailed off in a defeated sigh. "I cannot keep you against your will. If you prefer his attentions to mine, then I shall admit defeat and leave to the victor the prize.'' 

Rhiannon grabbed her taller partner's arm. "Are you really that much of a fool?" She searched Lina's face. "Yes, I see you are!" 

She dragged the pliant Lina over to a chair and pushed her down. Looming over her suddenly shame-faced partner, Rhiannon began speaking rapidly. "Benjamin and I weren't lovers. Ever! He was more like a brother to me, a fact that I would have been glad to make clear had you only asked! Instead, you obviously came here with a set of pre-conceived ideas and proceeded to cast me aside as if the time we've spent together means nothing to you!" 

She stopped to pant furiously, then swallowed her ire with an effort. In a far calmer voice, although her eyes still glowed, Rhiannon continued, "What on earth made you think we were lovers, you cloth headed idiot?" 

Lina mumbled, "You said you loved him..." 

Rhiannon rolled her eyes. "Why is it when jealousy rears its ugly head, common sense flies out the window? You didn't ask me what I meant and when you were so quiet, I thought you understood. Lina, if you really believe that I'd desert you for anyone else - male, female or otherwise - then I suppose you don't trust me. Have never trusted me. And that hurts me more than you can possibly imagine." 

Benjamin cleared his throat. When two sets of eyes - one brimming with anger and the other with tears - turned upon him, he said diffidently, "I'll just go fetch some tea, shall I?'' and left the office, shutting the door discreetly behind him. 

Rhiannon grasped Lina's chin and said, "For God's sake, Lina! Don't cry, please." She wiped away a stray tear. "Did you honestly think I'd throw you away without a second thought? No, I see you really didn't. You were just upset and blurted out the first thing that came to mind, I expect." 

The peer sniffed. "I apologize, my dear. I believe I have told you before that I have certain insecurities..." 

"Yes, I know." Rhiannon smiled ruefully, anger completely gone. "We both do. Every time you introduce me to someone from your past - particularly a female! - I have to wonder if you're comparing her lovemaking to mine." 

"I suppose I have made a fool of myself," Lina said. 

"Not an enormous one, no. If you'd challenged poor Benjamin to a duel for my honor, then you'd have gone too far." Rhiannon kissed Lina's cheeks, first left then right. "Have you been letting this gnaw at you all day? Good Lord! Why didn't you just ask me!" 

Lina took out a handkerchief and blew her nose. "I allowed my heart to rule my head, I suppose. No... that is not entirely true. I will tell you why, my dear. Because deep inside - in a place I rarely acknowledge and have had on more than one occasion to regret possessing - I fear losing you so much that at the slightest hint, my courage deserts me and I cannot help but descend into a maelstrom of doubt and worry." 

Rhiannon sighed. "Do you believe - deep down - that I love you?" 

"Yes." 

"Then next time, if you feel unsure, ask! I shall do the same. We've been together long enough to be sure that what we want is one another and no other. And questions don't mean questioning our love. Agreed?" 

Lina took Rhiannon's hand and let her lips brush across her lover's palm. "Agreed, my dear. I shall never doubt you again." 

"Never say never," the strawberry-blonde replied, rapping one knuckle on the wooden arm of Lina's chair. "At least, that's what my father always said." 

A knock came from the door. Benjamin tentatively poked his head inside the office. "Fireworks over?'' he asked. 

"Yes," Rhiannon said. "I was just about to explain to Lina about... well, you know." 

Benjamin came into the room, carrying a battered tin tray covered with tea things. "Oh, yes," he replied knowingly, startling Lina with a blue-eyed wink. "Do enlighten your lover about the notorious Benjamin Salt." 

"Lina, Bennie is... hmph. A delicate way of putting it would be to say that he prefers the company of gentlemen." Rhiannon raised both eyebrows and gave Lina a significant look. 

It took a moment, but the light finally dawned. "Ohhhh," Lina breathed. She turned her face to Benjamin and said contritely, "I do beg your pardon, Mister Salt. I made erroneous assumptions which have caused both you and Rhiannon distress. If there is any way I can atone for my atrocious behavior..." 

Benjamin waved a hand, balancing the tea tray. "Think nothing of it, Lady Evangeline. Mistakes happen. I'm sure you merely misunderstood something Rhiannon told you, that's all. No harm done, truly." 

He stepped back behind his desk, sat down and assumed an air of brisk command. "Now that all has been explained, perhaps you'll tell me why you've come. Not,'' he added hastily, "that I'm not thrilled to the core to see you again, Rhiannon! But I assume that something other than reunion has brought you to my door." 

Quickly, Rhiannon explained the reason she and Lina had come. When she finished, Benjamin smiled. "Nothing easier, ladies! My morgue is your morgue, if you will excuse the forbidding term. We do have copies of The Times from the period you seek; allow me to escort you downstairs to the cellar and introduce you to Old Mike." 

As they left, Benjamin said, "Attend, ladies! Old Mike is a formidable fixture in this hallowed institution. Woe to any who mar the perfection of his archives! Such infidels have disappeared into the crypt-like depths of labyrinthine cellars, never to be seen or heard from again." 

Rhiannon giggled; after a moment, so did Lina. 

Benjamin gave Lina another wink as he escorted them out of his office. 

Lina winked back. Somehow - despite her fears, jealousy and earlier reservations - she felt that this impudent gentleman would turn out to be a good friend, indeed. 

CHAPTER TEN

After spending several hours poring over enormous leather-bound copies of The Times, sneezing as the seldom used shelves and archives sent clouds of dust into the air each time they were disturbed, both Lina and Rhiannon were overjoyed when they finally came across a small article dated August 23, 1856. 

Lina read the item aloud while Rhiannon wrote furiously in her notebook.

TRAGEDY IN MAYFAIR
--August 23. Lady Amanda Moon, wife
of industrialist and philanthropist Sir Arthur
Moon, mother of two sons, Bartholomew
and Sebastian, lost her life in a tragic accident
last evening in her Mayfair home.

According to the family's physician, Doctor
Georges LeFevre, the lady had been ill
for some time.

The maid, Hermione Middleton,
discovered Lady Amanda in the early
morning. Her mistress had remained
bedridden for some months as a result
of paralysis stemming from nervous disorder.
Lady Amanda was found to have rolled
over in the night, and passed away due
to asphyxiation.

Our prayers are with the family and we
offer our condolences on their great loss.

"Hmph. Small help there," Lina complained after she finished the article. "Although I find the lady's death a bit... odd. We shall see if we can locate this maid and the family physician. Perhaps they can shed some more light on the circumstances." 

"Surely you don't think Lady Amanda's death was anything more than an accident, do you?," Rhiannon asked, putting down the pencil and shaking her wrist. It was a bit stiff after all her mad scribbling. "If she was under a doctor's care..." 

Lina snorted. "You would be surprised how many doctors overlook the obvious, my dear. Do you recall the young physician we encountered in Scotland? If you and I had not investigated the matter, your Great-Aunt's death would still be considered an accident and Sir Gregory the possessor of a fortune rightly belonging to yourself!" 

Rhiannon nodded thoughtfully. "Well, I certainly don't expect much to come out of this. It all happened so long ago. And besides, I'm more interested in Sebastian Moon than his mother." 

"True. But we shall persevere," Lina said, continuing to flip over pages. "One odd circumstance may very well lead to another." 

When she was unable to find anything else pertaining to the Moon family, Lina scanned along the shelves until she located another massive volume. Taking it down - and getting a faceful of dust that left her looking as if she'd been dipped in flour - she began quickly scanning the newspaper pages after a brisk shake of her head that sent grayish powder flying. 

"Ah! Here it is," she crooned, pointing to a narrow column dated June 15, 1870. "Are you ready, sweetheart? The article is short but, I believe, pertinent to our investigation." 

TWO MISSING - FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED

--June 15. Sir Arthur Moon and his youngest son,
Sebastian Harrington Moon, were reported as
missing yesterday afternoon. According to Phillip
Smalls, Sir Arthur's secretary, the gentleman and
his son left London on June 9 for a brief holiday in
Bath. They never arrived at their hotel and their
whereabouts are unknown.

Although the family has made no public comment,
the police have been alerted and their investigation
is proceeding. Kidnapping or foul pay is suspected.

Members of the public who may have information
regarding this case are urged to contact their local
department of police or Scotland Yard.
--A.B. Montrose

 "I wonder if A.B. Montrose still works for The Times?" Rhiannon asked. 

Lina shrugged. "Such longevity is not unheard of, my dear. Only twenty years have passed since Sir Arthur's murder; if Montrose was a young man at the time, he may very well still be haunting the newspaper's environs." 

"We must ask Mister Salt regarding Montrose," she continued. "It is often the case that journalists uncover far more than actually appears in print." 

"Why is that?" 

Lina chuckled. "Editors are often far more concerned with newspaper sales volume and public opinion than they are in telling the unexpurgated truth. Besides, if a story has its roots in scandal - as this one certainly does! - then he must be especially careful not to offend powerful parties... including the owner of the paper." 

"So Montrose may know more than we see here. Well! Then I definitely want to see him!," Rhiannon exclaimed. "He could have the entire business at his fingertips and save us a lot of trouble." 

Lina dusted off her bodice and skirts, clapping her hands together to rid her black kid gloves of dirt. "Possible, my dear, but not probable. Nevertheless, we shall endeavor to have a word or two with the gentleman in question." 

She rummaged around in the leather-bound volume and found the next article. "This one is dated a few days after the first," the peer said.

INDUSTRIALIST FOUND MURDERED!

--June 18. The body of Sir Arthur Moon, missing
since June 15, was discovered yesterday evening
by a police search party headed by local Inspector
Henry Stirling. According to the police surgeon's
findings, Sir Arthur was the victim of foul play, having
been stabbed numerous times by an unknown
assailant. Robbery has not been ruled out at this
time. The police are making every effort to
apprehend the perpetrator.

The whereabouts of Sir Arthur's youngest son, Sebastain,
have not been discovered. The authorities fear the
worst although his brother, Bartholomew Moon,
has been called upon to aid in the investigation.

This is not the first tragedy suffered by the Moon
family. On August 23, 1856, Sir Arthur's wife,
Lady Amanda Moon, lost her life in a tragic
accident at their Mayfair home.
--A.B. Montrose

"So... brother Bartholomew was called upon by the police," Lina said. "I wonder what his first impressions were when he was summoned to the scene of the crime." 

Rhiannon made a face. "I imagine what any other brother would feel under similar circumstances. Appalled, saddened and shaken to the core." 

"Well, we shall certainly add one Inspector Henry Stirling to our list of individuals to be interviewed," Lina said, rifling through the volume. "Not to mention Sir Bartholomew himself, if possible. I wonder if Mycroft Holmes could be of some assistance in the matter?" 

It took only a few moments to locate the next article. 

MOON'S MURDERER CAPTURED IN CALAIS!

--June 24. Today in a shocking revelation, the murderer
of industrialist Sir Arthur Moon was captured in Calais
during a desperate attempt to escape justice. The
perpetrator of this horrific crime proved to be none
other than his youngest son, Sebastian Moon.

According to Bartholomew Moon, Sir Arthur's eldest
son, his brother Sebastain suffered for years from
depressive mania and nervous hysteria, this condition
exacerbated by Sebastian's failure to succeed at
his chosen profession of artist.

Sebastian was apprehended by authorities in Calais while
attempting to flee the country. Among his possessions
was a carpetbag, containing a blood-stained knife
believed to be the weapon used to take Sir Arthur's
life. Sebastian Moon is currently being held in
Newgate prison pending trial.
--A.B. Montrose

"It makes one wonder how mad Sebastian Moon could have been, if his faculties were such that he was able to elude discovery for a few days and even contemplate a moonlight flit," Lina said. 

"Depressive mania and nervous hysteria?" Rhiannon asked. "What is that supposed to mean?" 

"If you will recall, my dear, Mister Blackpoole mentioned that Sebastian suffered from fits of depression and maniacal joy. The workings of the human mind are still somewhat of a mystery, notwithstanding the excellent work of such doctors as Sigmund Freud in Vienna and our own Doctor O'Bannon, and twenty years ago the understanding of such matters was darker still. Those catch-all terms still exist even in these more enlightened times."

"I wonder in what form Sebastian's mania manifested itself? Besides the homicidal impulse to kill his father, I mean." 

Lina frowned. "We must not make assumptions until we have all the facts at hand, my dear. The death of Sir Arthur Moon may not have been the impulsive act of a simple madman. It may very well have been a closely considered action taken for a number of reasons, none of which we can guess at until we have gathered as much information regarding Sebastian Moon as possible." 

Rhiannon shuddered. "Why would anyone want to kill his father?" she asked. 

"Inheritance, although in this case unlikely," Lina replied absently, continuing to turn pages. "Revenge for some injury or slight. Who knows? We may never discover the absolute truth; however, I do intend to try." 

They were required to consult another volume before the final article was revealed.

MOON SENTENCED

--September 24. Sebastian Moon, son of the
murdered Sir Arthur Moon and the person responsible
for his father's death, was sentenced today following a
brief trial. The judge, Sir William Adams, has sentenced
Sebastian to lifelong confinement at St. Catherine's
Hospital for the Mentally Deranged, following brother
Bartholomew Moon's offer of responsibility for
Sebastian's maintenance. Throughout the trial,
Sebastian Moon showed no remorse for his deed.
Public outcry at this lenient sentencing is strong. There
are many who feel that due to the vicious nature
of his crime, Sebastian should be facing the hangman
rather than a lifetime of hospitalization.

Sir Bartholomew Moon, now sole member of his
ill-starred family and inheritor of his father's title,
wealth and business concerns, will continue to attend
Oxford where he is studying law.
--A.B. Montrose

"Once again, good Master Montrose has revealed himself, much like the demon king in a pantomime leaping up through the trap and frightening children into fits. Or rather, like a Jonah of ill-luck, spreading doom, gloom and disaster in his wake." Lina smiled. "We must make it a priority of the first order to uncover the whereabouts of Montrose and interview him at our earliest opportunity." 

"I'd sooner call him a vulture than a Jonah," Rhiannon said. "Hovering about, waiting for disaster to strike. Still, that's the nature of a newsman, and one can hardly fault him for doing his job." 

They spent a few more moments consulting the archives but were unable to find any more references to Sebastian Moon. Shaking her skirts in a futile effort to rid them of dust, Lina said, "Let us return abovestairs to deliver our thanks to Mister Salt. Afterwards, I suggest we make some repair to our toilette at home and settle down to a quiet evening of Cook's excellent dinner and further contemplation of your painting." 

Rhiannon, wrinkling her nose ruefully at the soiled condition of her dress and gloves - by this point the two women were so covered in strings of cobwebby dust and dirt that they looked more like street urchins than ladies of fashion - agreed with her lover heartily. 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

During the course of the next week, Lady Evangeline sent out inquiries to friends and acquaintances in order to uncover the whereabouts of several of the people she wished to interview.

In the midst of messages and telegrams flying back and forth, Benjamin Salt visited Grosvenor Square, bringing with him an address for the mysterious A.B. Montrose.

"Never knew the chap myself," he said, perching on the rolled arm of the sofa and accepting a cup of tea. A sheaf of blonde hair concealed one merry blue eye. "From all accounts, he was a formidable fellow. Reported solely on crime and had a nose like a hunting hound when it came to bloodshed and murder. At one point he was even suspected of homicide himself because he arrived at the scene of the crime before the police even got wind of the matter!"

"Is there anything more you can tell us, Mister Salt?" Lina asked. She still didn't feel comfortable calling him "Bennie" as Rhiannon did.

"Hmmm...." Benjamin nibbled on a slice of cake before answering, "I heard from some of the older gentlemen that Montrose was a bit of a queer duck. Lived alone, never went out, quite unsociable. He retired from the business two years ago at the age of fifty, moved to Southend and runs a lodging house with a woman. Called the Bide-a-While Guesthouse' or some such thing"

Rhiannon raised a brow. "Lives with a woman? Not his wife?"

Benjamin blushed, dusting crumbs from his trousers. "Er, no. By all accounts, Montrose and Mrs. Lucinda Whiteletter reside together without the benefit of a clergyman's blessing. I say, you do have a dirty mind, woman. It may all be perfectly innocent, you know!"

Rhiannon giggled. "I just wanted to see if you could still blush, Bennie." She crossed the room and stood in front of the painting; Bob the footman had hung it on a wall in the study.

"Have you seen The Changeling's Moon?" she asked. "I find the details fascinating. All those wee people doing such funny things, so much detail it's amazing! Mister Blackpoole, the dealer, told us it took Moon twenty years to finish."

Benjamin got up and took a look, peering at the painting with polite interest. After a moment, he said, "Don't you find it a bit, um, strange... no, not strange but perhaps a bit odd. No, not odd, either." He blushed again. "Forgive me. I'm babbling."

Lina rose from the sofa and went to join Rhiannon, putting an arm around her lover's waist. "No, not at all, Mister Salt," she said. "Please go on."

"Well, it's a foolish observation," Benjamin said. "It just struck me that the artist's name - Sebastian Moon - is also reflected in the title of the piece. The Changeling's Moon. I wondered what he could have meant by it, that's all."

Lina's emerald eyes narrowed. "Possibly nothing, a mere trifling impulse on the part of the artist. On the other hand..." She fell silent.

Rhiannon looked up at Lina. "A 'changeling' is an old superstition, a fairy child put in the place of a stolen human child. I can't think of a connection, however."

The peer released Rhiannon and stepped closer to the painting. "My dear," she said, "How would you feel about a trip to Southend tomorrow?"

"To find A.B. Montrose? I'm certainly game," the strawberry-blonde answered. "Would you care to come along too, Bennie?" she asked.

Benjamin inclined his head. "I fear that duty calls, ladies," he replied. "However, should you care to enlighten me on any points of interest you may uncover..."

"Of course." Lina suddenly turned and confronted the young man. "As long as we have an understanding. I do not care to see the details of this investigation glaring at me from newspaper headlines, Mister Salt. All our conversations should be considered 'off the record' as I believe you people say, until I give you my express permission otherwise."

Benjamin nodded. "I completely understand, Lady Lina. You may rely on my discretion."

After Benjamin took his leave, pleading business concerns, Lina turned to Rhiannon. "Can we trust him, my dear? I certainly do not want to make an enemy out of so powerful a man as Sir Bartholomew Moon unless it is absolutely required."

"Yes, Bennie can be trusted." Rhiannon slid her arms around her lover and pressed close, tilting her face up for a kiss. "I give you my word that he's a man of honor."

"Excellent." Lina scooped Rhiannon even closer, hands molded to her back, marveling anew at the delicacy of the other woman's shoulder bones, seeming like wings of finest porcelain but far stronger.

For a moment, the two lovers stared at one another, green eyes melting into blue.

Time stopped for a single heartbeat, then two...

And Lina bent her head down and kissed her lover with sensuous ease, teasingly outlining Rhiannon's lips with her tongue before plunging it inside, enjoying the slightly sweet taste of cinnamon and cloves in her mouth, eyes closed against the explosion of breath upon cheek, leisurely outlining Rhiannon's teeth and sparring with her tongue before releasing her with a long, drawn-out moan of appreciation.

"Shall we retire upstairs or do you deem it too early in the afternoon for connubial bliss?" Lina asked breathlessly.

Rhiannon panted, hands clutching Lina's muscular shoulders in a convulsive grip. She swallowed, pale blue eyes hazy with lust. "Too early?" she replied in a near whisper. "Love, if you keep kissing me like that, in five minutes it'll be too late!"

With a knowing grin, Lina scooped Rhiannon up into her strong arms and carried her up the stairs to their bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind them.

(Author's Note: *See The Banshee's Wail for the full story.)

All contents on this site is copyrighted material owned by Nene Adams and Corrie Kuipers.
Reproduction or any other usage is strictly forbidden unless negotiated with us.
© Corrieweb 1997- 2005

The Changeling's Moon by Nene Adams (page 2)

CHAPTER TWELVE

The train journey to Southend was without incident; once arriving in the charming seaside town, Lina took a few moments to consult a willing porter, and soon they were on their way to the Bide-a-While Guesthouse. 

The lodging house proved to be a large, three-story, clapboard home with the roof shingled in slate. The exterior was painted a creamy white accented with brick-red on the shutters, window frames and door. It seemed a nice enough place; wicker chairs were lined up with military precision on the verandah, bright calico cushions adding a cheerful note. 

Rhiannon murmured, "Just smell that sea!" and inhaled deeply, thoroughly enjoying the scent of fresh salty air. 

Lina wrinkled her nose. "Not nearly as odiferous as Billingsgate, however..." 

"Don't tell me you miss that terrible London air!" 

"I confess, I have grown so used to the smells of our fair city - the belching stacks of factories on the Isle of Dog, the sulpher-tinged fog, the spectacular stench of the Thames when the tide runs high - that fresh air seems almost anathema to my London-hardened lungs. Still, I suppose Southend is fair enough," she continued, glancing around at the gaily colored banners and shopfronts that lined the broadwalk, just a few steps across shell-strewn sand to the sparkling sea. 

Rhiannon sighed. "All right. I suppose there's no talking you into taking a little holiday here someday." 

Lina shifted her parasol until it shielded both women from the gaze of passers-by. "My dear, if you wish to take your ease in this place, rest assured I shall accompany you. I will even attempt to enjoy myself, if you insist." She bent and kissed Rhiannon's mouth briefly. 

They climbed the steps to the verandah of the lodging house. Before Lina could ring the bell, the door flew open, revealing a lean, spare gentleman whose blue-black hair was liberally sprinkled with silver. "May I help you?" he asked in a husky voice. 

Lina smiled. "We seek one A.B. Montrose," she replied. "It was given to us to understand that he was the proprietor of this establishment." 

"I'm Montrose," the gentleman said, coming further out into the light and allowing the door to close behind him. In defiance of the fashion of the times, he was clean shaven. His hair was cut far shorter than the current mode, a few bare inches that left his ears well exposed. "What can I do for you, ladies?" 

Rhiannon felt uneasy. There was indeed something strange about Montrose, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it. "I was hoping you could help us," she began. "We've come all the way from London to ask you a few questions..." 

"Questions about what?" Montrose said with a sudden scowl. A bit shorter than Lina and not as muscular, he nevertheless exuded an air of power and control. He leaned a shoulder against the door jamb, unobtrusively but effectively blocking entrance to the lodging house. 

A female voice came from above; someone was leaning out one of the second floor windows. "What is it, Abie?" 

"Nothing, Lucy!" Montrose called loudly in response. "I'll take care of it." 

He took a cigar from his shirt pocket and busied himself snipping off the end and lighting it to his satisfaction. Blowing a cloud of foul-smelling smoke, he said coolly, "I think perhaps it would be best if you ladies took your leave. I can't answer any questions today, tomorrow or any other day, for that matter." 

Lina leaned on her parasol. Her green-and-white checked traveling gown was slightly stained along the hem due to walking on the road from the train station; ruffles concealed her hands almost to the knuckle. 

A wandering breeze tugged at the ribbons on her straw hat as she replied, "Why do you fear questions, Mister Montrose? I assure you that the fact that you are an American, although you have been in this country for quite some time, as well as other trifling observations I have made, are not the focus of our inquiry. We merely wish to see if you have further information regarding a crime that took place in 1870, which you reported on when you were still a journalist with The Times." 

Rather than relaxing, Montrose's posture became even more erect. He stood straight, one hand tucked beneath the opposite arm, his cigar forgotten in the other hand. "What observations?" he asked, ignoring the rest of Lina's statement. His brown eyes narrowed into glittering slits. 

Lina bared her teeth in a predatory smile. "Perhaps you would prefer to discuss such matters within?" she asked. Her tone suggested that this was a command rather than a question. 

Montrose seemed shaken but retaining an air of defiance, stepped aside, opened the door and bowed with an elaborate, almost sarcastic flourish, saying, "Welcome to the Bide-a-While, ladies." 

Rhiannon entered on Lina's heels, wondering just what her lover was about - and hoping she wouldn't alienate someone who might hold key information regarding The Changeling's Moon. 

Lucinda Whiteletter bustled nervously about the parlor, the lacy edge of her spotless apron fairly snapping as she fussed with a tea tray, passing out cups and offering rock buns, sandwiches and cakes. Finally, after a warning growl from Montrose, she reluctantly sat down, hands fiddling with a currant-speckled bun, crumbling it into bits. 

Lucinda was plump as a pigeon and quite attractive; her hair was a golden-brown reminiscent of cognac and matched the color of her eyes. With rosy cheeks liberally peppered with freckles and a wide, generous smile, she looked and acted like a woman much younger than her acknowledged fifty-three years of age. 

Rhiannon kept her eyes on Montrose; the man had taken off his jacket and now lounged carelessly in an overstuffed armchair, sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows and revealing the edge of an old tattoo on his upper arm, the ink having faded to a dark, blurred gray. She couldn't see enough of the design to make it out but assumed he must have been to sea at some time in his life; sailors commonly sported tattoos, taking pride in the permanent disfigurement of their skin. 

Although he appeared to be at his ease, there was a subtle tension that radiated through his frame, a slight flush of hectic color in his tanned and weather-beaten cheeks. 

"Well?" Montrose finally asked. "You made an observation about me outside, Miss...?" He stopped; contrary to polite convention, neither of the ladies had introduced themselves. 

"I am Lady Evangeline St. Claire," Lina said. "And this is my companion, Rhiannon Moore." 

Montrose inclined his head. "Lady St. Claire... I believe I have heard your name mentioned before in some capacity. In connection with the Ripper murders, perhaps?*" 

"Yes, I admit to a brief involvement with the case," Lina replied. "However, my business here has nothing to do with the Whitechapel killings. I am here regarding a crime that took place twenty years ago. Specifically, the brutal murder of Sir Arthur Moon by his son, Sebastian." 

Montrose opened his mouth to speak, then stopped and he drew a breath. "First things first, my lady. Perhaps you'd care to enlighten me about your strange remark that I was an American... as well as your enigmatic reference to 'other observations' you have made about me." 

Lina leaned back, rubbing her upper lip in thought. After a while, she said languidly, as if she were speaking in a dream, "Your accent - faint but detectable - is more suggestive of the American south than Southwark. Furthermore, judging from the slight roll in your walk, the traces of calluses and faded dark stains on the palms of your hands - from tarred rope, I should say - as well as the tattoo on your arm - although I have not seen it in its entirety, the design seems to suggest a steamboat powered by a paddlewheel - I would hazard to deduce that you once plied the riverboat trade, possibly in Mississippi. Also, your watch chain bears a slug of lead; once used, no doubt, at the end of a leadline, cast into the waters to determine their depth." 

Montrose let out a breath. Rolling up his right sleeve further, he revealed the design of a steamboat engraved on his skin. "You're right. When I was a teenage youth I signed onto a riverboat. I left after a few years; the captain was a brutal devil who switched from carrying cotton to transporting slaves. He treated his human cargo worse than animals and I refused to be a part of it. I came to England when I was twenty, got a job as a freelance reporter for The Times and eventually became a full-time employee." 

"Ah, but that is not the end of my deductions," Lina said with a smile. 

Montrose stiffened a bit but did not try to stop her. Lucinda, with a worried frown, reached out and patted the gentleman's hand. He did not acknowledge her but sat with his eyes trained on the dark-haired woman in front of him. 

"Rest assured, your secret is safe with me." Lina took a sip of tea before continuing, "I realize how difficult it has been for you, keeping up such a masquerade for so many years. I have no intention of unmasking you or revealing that which you have kept hidden so long." 

Lucinda drew a deep breath and looked as if she was about to cry. Montrose bit his lip and turned pale. 

"I refer, of course," Lina said, "to the fact that you are not the man you pretend to be." 

Rhiannon, confused, was about to ask a question but was waved into silence by her lover. 

Lina continued, "A.B. Montrose is, in fact... a woman." 

At this pronouncement, Lucinda Whiteletter burst into tears and buried her face in her apron. 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Montrose clutched the arms of his chair convulsively and swallowed. "What... what the devil do you mean?" he sputtered. 

Lina sighed. "Mister - or I should say more properly, Miss Montrose - while your secret may have been able to withstand the casual observation of acquaintances, employers and the general public, my senses are far keener and much better trained." 

"How did you know?" Montrose asked hoarsely. Her eyes swiveled as if seeking escape. "No one's ever guessed, ever!" 

"I do not guess, I deduce." Lina turned to Rhiannon and said, "Please see to Miss Whiteletter, my dear. You have smelling salts if they are required?" 

Rhiannon nodded and went over to the still weeping Lucinda, putting a comforting arm around the woman's shoulders and whispering reassurances. 

"Now then, Miss Montrose," Lina said, her posture and bearing indicating that she was in full command of the situation. "First, it has been my observation that gentlemen of such dark coloring as your own always bear the shadow of  beards upon their cheeks and chin, even after having been freshly shaven. You have no such stigmata. Furthermore, as your shirt is open necked and exposes your throat, I can see that you lack what is termed by the layman as an 'adam's apple' - again, the sole province of the male. Your hands and feet are quite small and delicate for your height, your shoulders narrow, and despite your lean build, you still possess the tell-tale rounded hips and small waist of a woman. I suppose you were corseted as a child." 

"I was," Montrose admitted. "I hated it but Mother insisted. She even made me sleep in it at night. No matter how many times I cut those damned strings, she persevered." 

"Ah." Lina's lips parted in a slight smile. "I see you wear your shirts loosely. Did you stop binding your breasts when you retired from active life?" 

Montrose sighed. "Yes," she replied. "I'm rather less blessed in that area, thank God. But it was still uncomfortable. With my jacket on, no one notices. Even when I remove my jacket and waistcoat, it's still practically unnoticeable." 

"People see what they have been programmed to see, so to speak," Lina said. "A person dressed in male clothing, performing the actions - such as cigar smoking in public - that are traditionally associated with men, will not bother to see beyond the facade. I imagine that such social blindness has been a great help in maintaining your masquerade." 

"It's not a masquerade!" Montrose blurted, her cheeks now flaming with color. "God may have chosen to give me the physical form of a female, but I have always felt myself a man. I left home when I was twelve years old to escape the role that my family had chosen for me, preferring to live the uncertain and dangerous life of a man rather than deny my true self and be bound into the mold of a woman. I have lived so ever since, undetected and happy with my lot. Until now..." 

Lina said hastily, "As I said before, I have no intention of exposing you." She shifted on the sofa until she was facing Lucinda, who by now had stopped crying and was observing the proceedings with slightly bloodshot eyes. 

"Miss Whiteletter, there is no need for upset. Your lover's secret is quite safe, I assure you. As a consulting detective, many secrets come my way and my discretion is a by-word." 

The plump woman sniffled while Rhiannon rubbed her back. She looked imploringly at Montrose. "D'you think it'll be okay, Abie?" 

Montrose studied Lina a moment, her dark eyes seeming black as anthracite in the semi-gloom of the parlor. Finally, she nodded her head as if some inner requirement had been satisfied. "I believe we can trust Lady St. Claire," she said. "After all, she didn't come here for the specific purpose of uncovering that Abigail Montrose has been living as a man for forty years." 

"True." Lina rummaged around in her reticule and withdrew a platinum-and-jade cigarette case. After lighting her cigarette with a lit lucifer provided by Montrose, she continued, "Now that the drama is passed, perhaps we may begin next with the business that brought Rhiannon and myself to Southend. Specifically, the murder of Sir Arthur Moon." 

Montrose relaxed, the wire-taut tension gone. "Why do you wish to dredge up that old business?" 

Rhiannon answered, still absently soothing the sniffling Lucinda, "I bought a painting of Sebastian Moon's and the dealer was able to give us only a few details. I find his story intriguing and wanted to know more." 

"Hmph. Intriguing, that's one way of putting it. How did you come to connect me with the matter?" 

"We visited The Times and reviewed the articles you wrote about the incident." Rhiannon gave the retired journalist a rueful smile. "I suppose you think us terribly forward. I can't explain why I find myself so drawn to Sebastian Moon's tragic circumstances. I suppose Lina and I both have a feeling that there's more to the story than we've been able to find out by ourselves." 

Lina said, "We hoped that you might remember stray facts or some such that your editors did not see fit to print." 

"All stories are like that, my lady!" Montrose said with an ironic laugh. "Anything not suitably watered down for public consumption is deemed unprintable. Let me get my notebooks... yes," she continued at Rhiannon's look of astonishment, "I still have my notebooks. All of them, in fact. Lucy claims I'm a pack rat, unable to throw anything at all away, and she's been after me for months to chuck away the bulk of my precious papers, as they clutter up the place and make her tidy heart palpate with frustration. I suppose she has a point but in this case, I think my miserly nature is more of an asset than a vice." 

Montrose rose and left the room. As soon as she was gone, Rhiannon - her task done - rejoined her lover on the sofa. 

Lucinda wiped her face with her sodden apron. "Well," she said with forced cheerfulness, "I suppose that's all right, then." She glanced curiously at Lina and Rhiannon. "Are you two...?" She hesitated, unsure how to phrase her question. 

"Lovers?" Lina chuckled. "Lovers and in love, Miss Whiteletter." 

Rhiannon glanced at Lina out of the corner of her eye; the other woman's beautiful features were wreathed in curling tendrils of smoke, giving her an otherworldly appearance. She spent a moment rearranging the skirts of her dove-gray traveling costume and then leaned against Lina, careful not to crush the small straw boater that was perched on her strawberry-blonde braids. 

Lucinda said confidentially, "I'm always afraid of the law. Mind you, I love Abie; we met when I was a barmaid down at the Fiddlin' Moggie and he'd come in for a pint after work. When he retired, we come here to run this little house together. I reckon what with Abie bein' known as a man and all we could've gotten married, but I'm a bit too old for white satin and orange flowers. But I'm always afraid some snoopin' constable or something's gonna find out and Abie'll be arrested. I don't think I could stand it, him bein' in gaol!" 

"But I didn't think it was against the law!" Rhiannon exclaimed. "Lina, is it?" 

"What, my dear?" 

"You know..." Rhiannon blushed slightly. "What we do. In private. Is it illegal?" 

Lina's emerald eyes glittered with amusement. "Certainly not!" she declared. "While men loving men is a punishable crime in Britain, the opposite is not the case. In fact, when such a law was proposed, banning women to women relationships, Queen Victoria refused to ratify it." 

"Why's that?" Lucinda asked, and Rhiannon repeated the question. 

Lina laughed. "Because she did not believe such a thing was within the realms of possibility!" 

All three women chuckled, and when Montrose returned, bearing several battered notebooks, they had to let her in on the joke. 

She threw back her head and laughed heartily. "God bless our Queen!" she said, prompting another round of giggles. 

The atmosphere eased into one of good cheer and Lucinda insisted on another round of tea and cakes, but things soon assumed an air of almost unbearable suspense when Montrose eventually opened her notebooks and began to relate to Lina and Rhiannon the true circumstances of Sir Arthur Moon's murder. 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN 

"I thought I remembered the details, but I wanted to consult my notebooks to be sure," Montrose said. She was sitting in her armchair, slouched down with her long legs crossed over one another in a leisurely way; another cigar burning at her elbow in a battered brass stand. "You're right; there were a lot of things that came out about the whole business that never found their way into print." 

"I thought as much," Lina said. "Please, do go on." 

Rhiannon took out her own little notebook and began to scribe notes as Montrose spoke. 

"According to my interviews with Sir Arthur's secretary - a purse-faced, mincing little cherub named Phillip Smalls - Sir Arthur had been asked by his son, Sebastian, to accompany him on a holiday to Bath. Smalls wasn't privy to all the details but he was able to tell me that Sebastian seemed very nervous; starting with white eyes at every sound and mumbling to himself. Smalls wasn't able to catch anything but the word 'cuckoo' - which meant nothing to me at the time and frankly, still doesn't." 

Rhiannon's brows drew together in a frown. "There may be a connection to something else, but," she added hastily when all eyes turned to her, "I'll wait until you're finished. It probably doesn't mean anything, anyway." 

Montrose continued, "Smalls claimed that Sir Arthur and Sebastian had a spectacular argument - Sebastian insisting vehemently that the holiday take place, his father equally insistent that business concerns warranted his remaining in London. In the end, and much to Small's surprise, Sir Arthur agreed to the trip. I take it that he was unable to make out why; it seems that the secretary was in the habit of eavesdropping on his employer, and this time, the two gentlemen's voices softened to a degree that made overhearing impossible. 

"At any rate, Sir Arthur and Sebastian departed from London on June 9th, taking a first class carriage on the 8:15 morning train. They were expected to arrive at their hotel in the late afternoon." 

"According to your article, the two gentlemen weren't missed until June 14. Why was there such an inordinate delay?" 

Montrose smiled. "The hotel manager came down with a stomach virus and was violently ill for several days. He had recently had cause to relieve his former assistant and had hired a new man, but he was barely trained and overwhelmed by the amount of custom. Reservations were lost, bills neglected, things were altogether a confusion of chaos. When the manager finally felt well enough to take charge, it was another day or so before he realized that the Moon's hadn't checked in. He immediately contacted Sir Arthur's London offices by telegram. When Smalls discovered that his employer was missing, he raised the alarm and the local police began investigating the matter." 

"Inspector Henry Stirling, was it not?" Lina asked. 

"Yes. By all accounts an admirable man, quite experienced and very well respected. The train attendant confirmed that Sir Arthur and Sebastian departed the train in the small village of Starlingate, where they enjoyed a hearty lunch at a nearby pub. Several witnesses came forward to relate that the two gentlemen left the pub at around 2:30 in the afternoon and were last seen walking along a lane, voices raised in argument. Inspector Stirling immediately concentrated the search in this area and on June 18, Sir Arthur's body was discovered." 

"He had been stabbed, I believe?" 

Montrose made a face. "Massacred is more like it, my lady. He had been stabbed so violently and so many times that his chest was practically nonexistent; one could almost see the bones of his spine peeking up from the massive wound. His face had also been almost obliterated; I tell you, I have seen a good deal of violence and bloodshed in my career, but Sir Arthur's death was by far the most gruesome." 

"I can see why such details were suppressed," Lina said dryly. 

"Indeed... one can't have well-bred ladies fainting at the breakfast table." Montrose flipped a few pages in her notebook and inhaled thoughtfully on her cigar. "Bartholomew Moon was summoned immediately in order to make an identification of the body, which he did by recognizing his father's signet ring. The police were inclined to believe Sir Arthur's death was the result of a robbery gone wrong, but Bartholomew..." She hesitated. 

Lina leaned forward, her entire body seeming to quiver with eagerness. "Go on," she said. "What about Bartholomew?" 

"Well, his behavior was one of the strangest things about the case." Montrose puffed on her cigar a moment, tapping out the ash. "From the first, he insisted that his brother, Sebastian, was the perpetrator of Sir Arthur's murder. Inspector Stirling was inclined to put it down to hysteria, but Bartholomew eventually threatened to go over Stirling's head. After spending another day in a fruitless search for Sebastian, Stirling - still not inclined to believe Bartholomew but having little choice - began to cast his net wider, alerting the authorities throughout Britain and France via telegram. On June 24, Sebastian was apprehended in Calais, trying to buy a ticket to Vienna." 

Rhiannon looked up from her writing, appalled. "But why would Bartholomew even believe his brother capable of such a thing, never mind insist that it was so?" 

Lina snorted. "Apparently, brother Bartholomew knew far more about the case than he was willing to admit." 

"I felt the same way," Montrose confessed, "and believe me, I tried to get to the bottom of it. But Bartholomew refused to answer any questions and even complained to my senior editor when I pressed him, so I was forced to drop the subject." 

"And what about Sebastian? Were you able to interview him after his capture?" Lina asked. 

"Not as such. I did gain access to his lodging through the simple expedient of bribing the landlady," Montrose answered with a smug smile. "After seeing his rooms, I could well believe him mad. He lived there for four years; the place was a pigsty, filthy with food scraps, rotting clothing, dried paints smeared on the walls and floor..." She shuddered. "The stench was unbelievable. There weren't any finished canvases among the stacks that were scattered about - nearly ceiling high in some places - but most of them were concerned with a single subject: Sir Arthur. Portrayed as a demonic figure, complete with horns and goat's feet, torturing little children." 

Rhiannon let out a little cry of horror while Lina said, "Torturing children? In what way, pray?" 

Montrose made a face. "The subject is not one upon which I wish to dwell, Lady St. Claire." 

"To be sure," she pressed, "nevertheless, any detail you can relate may be important to our inquiry." 

"Very well, since you insist." Montrose took a moment to compose herself, wiping tiny beads of sweat from her upper lip with the back of her hand. "This devil figure appeared to be drowning children in a bathtub." 

There was silence; at last, Rhiannon shook her head. "The workings of a madman's mind are a mystery," she commented. The strawberry-blonde was feeling a little ill and desperately wanted to change the forbidding subject. "Did you find anything else in the rooms?" she asked. 

"As a matter of fact, I did," Montrose replied. "A curious note pinned to the wall. It contained a list of three names; Sir Arthur's was at the top of the list, along with Doctor Georges LeFevre - the family's physician - and Hermione Middleton, the late Lady Amanda's maid." 

"Was Hermione still employed by the Moon's after Lady Amanda's death?" Lina asked. She appeared to be lounging lazily on the sofa, her eyes half-closed, but Rhiannon knew from experience that this pose was a sham; her lover's incredible intellect was working at lightning speed. 

"Yes," Montrose answered. "In the capacity of housekeeper with a salary of  two hundred pounds a year. Very generous, if you ask me. She retired a few years ago but I have no idea where she ended up." 

"Very well," Lina said. "Your information has been most helpful but I believe that Rhiannon and I have already taken up too much of your time. With your permission, we shall take our leave." She sat up, gathering her reticule and parasol and preparing to depart. 

Lucinda had left the room earlier, pleading a headache. Montrose was puzzled by Lina's abruptness, but rose from her chair, saying, "I cannot state that your visit has been entirely pleasant, Lady St. Claire. On the other hand, it has most certainly been the most diverting afternoon I've spent in some time." 

Montrose escorted the two ladies to the door. Before they left, Lina said, "Again, you have my most heart-felt thanks for your assistance. I apologize for the distress caused by my earlier actions; I hope you will not hold my predilection for exercising my deductive abilities against me." 

"Not at all," Montrose replied generously. "I suppose I'd been getting a bit too complacent; a little shaking up should keep me on my toes!" 

As they took their leave, Montrose drew Rhiannon aside and said, "I'm not sure why you feel Sir Arthur's murder to be of significance... but should you uncover anything new about the case, would you be so kind as to return and visit us again? I may be out of the news game, but my curiosity is as strong as any man's." 

"Of course," Rhiannon replied with a small smile. She shook Montrose's hand and left to rejoin Lina, who was waiting impatiently at the gate. 

While they walked briskly back to the train station, Rhiannon asked, "Where to now, love?" 

Lina's face was set in a grim expression. "To home," she replied. "I wish to examine that painting of yours in closer detail. Also, there may perhaps be answers to the telegrams I sent regarding Middleton and LeFevre." 

Her eyes glimmered darkly as she added, "I fear there are foul deeds afoot, my dear. Sir Arthur's death may very well have been just the final link in a long chain of purest evil." 

Rhiannon tried to pry more answers out of her lover, but Lina refused to explain. 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

When they returned to Grosvenor Square, Jackson was waiting for them at the door. "A message from Mycroft Holmes arrived, milady," he said. "As well as a great many telegrams." 

"Very well," Lina replied. "I will deal with such matters later. At the moment, I require a hot bath, a change of clothing and something substantial to eat. Rhiannon? Will you be joining me upstairs?" 

"As long as its only bathing that's on your mind," the strawberry-blonde replied sotto voce. "After all that 'business' yesterday, I'm a bit sore, if you know what I mean." 

They started up the stairs. "Did I hurt you?" Lina asked contritely, her earlier and grimmer mood seeming to have passed. "You seemed to be enjoying it at the time..." 

"Of course I enjoyed it!" Rhiannon said. "I'm just a little sore, that's all. It'll pass." 

They went into their bedroom and shut the door. Rhiannon had recently redecorated the room in shades of tobacco brown and dark crimson; the immense four-poster bed from Hong Kong had been gilded in places to bring out the carved details of twisting dragons and poppies on the posts. Tasseled cushions in dark jewel colors littered the floor and the small ebony tables scattered here and there groaned beneath the weight of porcelain and ivory figures. To Lina, the oriental flavor of the decorations Rhiannon had chosen made the room seem like an upper class opium den. 

She went into the bathroom, thankful that this room had escaped Rhiannon's Chinese fervor. "Shall I ask Jackson to bring up the hip bath so that you may soak your pains away?" Lina asked, her voice echoing hollowly. 

"No," Rhiannon answered, pulling pins out of her hair and tossing them down on a dressing table. "I'll just share yours, if you don't mind." 

As she walked into the bathroom, Rhiannon had to repress a shudder at the sight of the tub filled with gently steaming water. She vividly remembered her suicide attempt, and as she removed the wide gold bracelets that hid her scars, she stared at them soberly. 

It's hard to believe I actually wanted to die, she thought. I really believed Lina would be better off without me. 

Lina got into the scented water first, as had become their custom. For a time, after Rhiannon tried to kill herself, the peer had watched her surreptitiously, flinching if she even so much as picked up a butter knife. However, she'd quickly realized that Rhiannon had not only picked up on her surveillance but was extremely saddened by it. So despite her misgivings, Lina had tried to behave as normally as possible. 

That part of their lives was past, of course. The hell they'd endured was over; although they still spoke about it on occasion, neither Rhiannon nor Lina wanted to dwell morbidly on that terrible time. Things were much, much better, they were closer than ever before, and the love they felt for one another had flourished into a thing of absolute joy and beauty. 

Lina watched Rhiannon undress, each layer of her clothing peeled away and carefully folded in a familiar ritual, until finally she was covered only by the glory of her cascading red-blonde hair. Lina's eyes traced every sweeping curve, every line of her wife's body, drinking her in, wanting nothing more than to sink wholly into her essence and drown in her sky blue eyes. 

Rhiannon watched Lina from beneath her lashes as she puttered around the bathroom, ignoring the cool tiles under her feet. Despite her earlier misgivings, the sight of Lina's wet and slippery flesh gleaming in the golden gaslight made a familiar itch begin to tingle between her thighs. 

She deliberately bent over several times, giving her lover an eye-opening look at her delicate pink folds, lightly furred with flaming curls, firm round buttocks and the small puckered opening that peeped between her cheeks. 

Lina couldn't have taken her eyes away if her life had depended on it. 

When Rhiannon finally slid into the tub, Lina's face was scarlet. Whether it was from the heat of the water, or another source of heat entirely, Rhiannon intended to find out. She grinned mischievously; the way her lover reacted to her body was always a source of delight. 

Their lovemaking had become less playful and more intense following Cairo; then it had been non-existent for a while, but after Rhiannon had at last begun to deal with her emotional ordeal, she'd been more willing to try. Lina had been incredibly gentle and patient, never pushing her lover for more than she was willing to give, and always ready simply to hug or hold the woman if that was all she could tolerate. But at long last, and much to Lina's delight, Rhiannon had begun teasing again... 

Now, the strawberry-blonde sat up facing Lina, knees drawn up to her chin, arms clasped loosely around her legs. Blue eyes smoldered as she let them wander down the length of Lina's magnificent body - the smoothly muscled arms and shoulders; full breasts crowned with dusky rose nipples that were already straining at the air; trim waist flaring out to womanly but compact hips. Lina's flat belly flexed down to a flourish of black fur that seemed to shimmer beneath the water. 

Lina let her head fall back and moaned softly. Knowing Rhiannon was looking at her, openly admiring every inch of her body - that intense perusal was an act as erotic as a touch. She kept her eyes open, though, arousal flaring as she watched Rhiannon watching her. 

All at once, a curious look settled over Rhiannon's face. It was pride... no, it was more than that. Pride and a certain cool self-confidence, an expression one might expect to be better suited to a Queen. 

''You may bathe me,'' Rhiannon commanded simply, turning around to present her back to Lina and obviously expecting to be obeyed. 

Lina sucked in a breath. This was new, unexpected - and very, very exciting. Just how far her wife intended to go with this, she wasn't sure, but she intensely wanted to find out.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"Yes, ma'am,'' Lina said with a subservient tilt of her head, indicating acquiescence to her new role. 

She soaped up a sponge and began smoothing the slippery suds over Rhiannon's back, carefully pushing strawberry-blonde curls over creamy shoulders. As she rinsed each area, Lina planted hot kisses on the clean flesh, delicately tracing her tongue in ornate patterns and then kissing the wetness away. 

Rhiannon bit back a moan of sheer pleasure and kept herself still by an act of will. It wouldn't do to surrender too soon. 

Lina finished Rhiannon's back and the smaller woman turned around. Her pale eyes seemed darker, more intensely blue from passion. When Lina leaned in to capture her lips, however, Rhiannon turned her head. It was apparent the game wasn't finished yet. 

Lina sighed, but from pleasure more than frustration, then began soaping Rhiannon's front, paying her shoulders and breasts the same loving attention, sucking her turgid, rose-pink nipples one after the other, flicking her tongue over and over the upstanding nubs while Rhiannon gasped and whimpered. 

When Lina reached for more soap, however, Rhiannon stood up, standing above her, sweetly scented water cascading in a rush over her belly, down her thighs, dripping in shimmering droplets from the thatch of now dark red curls that concealed 
her sex. 

''You may continue,'' she commanded shortly, but bestowed a loving smile on her willing slave, who didn't have to be told twice. 

Stomach... (warm tongue dipping into her navel making Rhiannon twitch)... Outer thighs (lips caressing, sliding)... Inner thighs... (the muscles quivered as Rhiannon fought for control)... but when Lina's mouth hovered over the dripping wet curls of her sex, she slipped a hand under her lover's chin and tilted her face up. ''Save that for last,'' she said imperiously. 

Lina looked as if she wanted to protest, but swallowed it when she considered the glow on Rhiannon's face. It was clear she was enjoying  this... 

And so am I, Lina thought as she obediently began soaping and  rinsing her lover's legs. A great deal, in fact.

Water lapping at her increasingly needy sex as she sat up on her knees made Lina want to reach down and rub her fingers through her slippery  folds, coax the tingling burn into an inferno of release, but she held back, struggling to remain in control. 

Rhiannon lifted each foot from the water in turn, gasping when Lina licked and sucked her toes, one by one. She's never done that before! she thought, one hand on the tiled wall to keep her balance. Ooooh!

As soon as Lina was finished paying homage to her feet, Rhiannon turned around, hands on her hips. ''Wash my back. And mind you do a good job,'' she said, eyes flashing in mock warning as she craned her neck around to look at her submissively kneeling lover. 

''Yes, ma'am,'' Lina replied, a twinkle in her green eyes. She quickly began applying soap to Rhiannon's backside. 

Rhiannon groaned in the back of her throat and leaned against the wall, arching her back to present herself more fully to Lina's attentions. At the first touch of that wet tongue, sliding along the crease of her buttocks, she let out a strangled gasp and fought the urge to bend over entirely, instead straining her hips to push the sensitive flesh more completely into Lina's mouth. 

Well, I hope this does not shock her into insensibility, Lina thought mischievously, but after all, she started this little game!

Lina kneaded the firm ass cheeks a moment before pulling them apart. Before Rhiannon could draw breath to protest, she quickly dipped her tongue inside, swirling in wet circles around the puckered opening, and Rhiannon's hands curled into fists as she slid a little further down the wall, spreading her legs as far apart as she could, feet braced against the sides of the tub. 

Lina's tongue wandered down until she slicked it up into the glistening folds of Rhiannon's sex, laving the heated flesh until the smaller woman felt dizzy. She choked, ''Wait!'' and stood still a moment, trying to catch her breath. 

''Shall we continue this in the bedroom?'' Lina asked, kissing and nibbling Rhiannon's buttocks as she remained kneeling in the cooling water, hands sliding around the other woman's belly to cup her sex and caress her thighs. ''Or would you rather just sit down on the edge of the tub... mistress?'' Her eyebrow cocked as she grinned, thinking she already knew the answer. 

''Take me to the bed,'' Rhiannon said, feeling flushed and breathless. 

Without another word, Lina stood up and turned Rhiannon around, swinging her up into her arms easily and stepping out of the tub. Rhiannon twined her fingers through Lina's dark hair, the ends wet and dripping, and nibbled her earlobe, tongue darting out to lick the curve of her ear, reveling in the strength and power of the woman she loved. 

Lina deposited Rhiannon on the bed, getting up with her in one smooth move and straddling her waist. ''What does my mistress desire?'' she asked, bending her head down to lightly suck the tender flesh of Rhiannon's throat, full breasts pressing and rubbing on Rhiannon's own, erect nipples bumping together. 

It was such a struggle to think. 

''You know what I want,'' Rhiannon said throatily, hands sliding over Lina's back, tracing the curve of muscles that shifted at her touch. 

Indeed, Lina did. And it didn't take her very long to show her panting lover just exactly how much she knew. 

Eventually, Rhiannon lay on her back, legs spread wide and resting on Lina's broad shoulders, moaning, ''Yes... that's it... oh, yes, right there...'' 

Lina nuzzled and planted long, pouting kisses on the swollen source of Rhiannon's desire, finally drawing the nub between her lips and sucking, tongue pressed against the sensitive tip. 

Rhiannon let out a gasp, hands reaching down to tangle in Lina's hair, hips lifting and pushing out, willing her lover to take more of her, all of her, every screaming nerve and shivering inch of liquid flesh. Her shoulders came off the bed as she sat up a little, eyes screwed shut, head thrown back, face beet red... and with a wail she felt herself let go, over the edge and down into pure bliss, shattering, grinding herself on Lina's tongue, shuddering and convulsing, unable even to breathe. 

Finally, after a timelessly heartstopping moment, Rhiannon fell back on the bed, panting heavily, sweat cooling on her body, hands relaxing their grip on Lina's hair as she tried to control the frenzied thumping of her heart. 

Lina slid up on the bed beside Rhiannon, then bent her head and kissed her wife's flaming cheeks, lips wandering to kiss the corner of her mouth. ''I take it that you are pleased?'' she whispered, one hand coming up to gently squeeze Rhiannon's breast. 

''Oh, yes,'' Rhiannon breathed, turning her head a little to press her lips to Lina's, pushing her tongue into wet warmth, tasting her own musky essence in her lover's mouth and shuddering as another tiny wave of pleasure made her toes tingle. She broke off the kiss and opened her eyes, staring into pools of rich emerald fire. 

''You have a rich imagination, my dear,'' Lina purred, kneading the captured breast rhythmically. ''So creative... so inventive...'' 

Having finally caught her breath, Rhiannon suddenly pushed Lina over on her back, rolling on top of her. ''You think so?'' she asked huskily, straddling one of Lina's thighs. ''Well, I certainly like your imagination, love. But I'm so glad you appreciate my many skills.'' 

She bent her head to gently trace her tongue around the dark-rose flesh of a nipple, flicking it back and forth rapidly, then pulled it into her mouth and sucked strongly. Lina moaned, hands gripping Rhiannon's hips. 

''I... I am happy to have been of service,'' Lina managed to gasp out. She could feel hot moisture gathering between her thighs, sliding down to further drench the already damp sheets. She raised her leg, making Rhiannon fall forward... but that hot mouth never lost its grip on her sensitive nipple. The muscles in Lina's arms jumped and bulged beneath the skin as she began sliding Rhiannon up and down, rubbing the other woman's sopping sex against her leg. 

''Oh no, you don't... I've already had my turn,'' Rhiannon murmured against Lina's breast, releasing her nipple. Rising up on her toes, she removed her warm sex from Lina's thigh and shifted up a little. She kissed her whimpering lover deeply, nibbling on her bottom lip as Lina's hands slid between her spread thighs, curling up to stroke her bottom and urge her down. 

Rhiannon swung a leg over, ending up kneeling beside Lina. ''Hands and knees, love.'' 

Lina obeyed hastily, feeling Rhiannon shift on the bed until she was behind her. When Rhiannon said, ''Spread your legs wide apart, Lina,'' she did, hips unconsciously dancing a little in anticipation. 

Rhiannon stayed a moment, admiring the view. Lina's knees were spread so far apart that the tendons in her thighs were taut and quivering. Her sex was fully exposed and the muscles of her backside quivered nervously. As she watched, she could see a tiny trickle of moisture gather at the mouth of Lina's dark crimson core and drip down slowly, drop by drop. Nostrils flaring, Rhiannon inhaled deeply, moving her face closer, reveling in that slightly spicy, musky scent that was uniquely Lina's own. 

A wide grin crossed her face. What's sauce for the goose, Rhiannon thought. 

She scooted even closer and wrapped her hands around Lina's thighs, then began licking and sucking the flesh of her buttocks, tracing her soft, wet tongue up and down the crease until Lina moaned deeply and arched her back, pushing her hips back with a whispered, ''Oh, my... yes...'' 

Rhiannon abruptly thrust two fingers deep inside Lina's dripping core and began pumping in and out slowly. Pressing her face into Lina's backside, she pushed her tongue inside, wriggling the tip around and around the puckered opening, feeling quite lewd as she did so. Lina groaned, hands gripping the sheets convulsively, hips rocking back and forth as the actions of Rhiannon's fingers and tongue sent hot sparks shooting down every nerve in her body. 

Rhiannon slid her other hand around until she had her fingers pressed firmly against Lina's throbbing nub, making the sweating woman shudder. She raised her face up just long enough to say, ''Ride my hands, Lina, that's it... feel me loving you...'' 

Holding the crumpled sheets tightly in her fists, Lina bent her head and worked her hips frantically, back and forth, Rhiannon's fingers sliding in and out of her, other fingers rubbing her increasingly sensitive source, that velvety tongue coaxing its way inside. ''Oh, God...,'' she groaned. 

Rhiannon added a third finger and curled them up a little as Lina moved harder and stronger, faster and faster, feeling her lover's internal muscles quivering, musky scent growing stronger. She worked the length of her tongue through the relaxed muscle and pushed it in deeper, thinking to herself that it wouldn't be much longer now... 

With a high pitched squeal, Lina's climax hit like a hammer, making her explode with sheer sensation, hips spasming, strands of inky hair sticking to her sweat-smeared body, mouth open and eyes rolling up as she grunted and howled, impaling herself again and again on Rhiannon's fingers and tongue. 

When the convulsions began to die, Rhiannon sat up but kept her fingers in place. ''That's it, love...,'' she murmured, ''Now again, come on, you can do it.'' 

She rolled Lina's engorged nub between her fingers then bent back down and lapped at her lover's drenched folds, licking up that sweet musky nectar, until she could feel Lina clenching on her fingers again as she spasmed into another climax, finally collapsing face down on the bed, gasping for air. 

Rhiannon moved until she lay on top of Lina, face pressed against hers. ''Mmmm... I love you,'' she whispered, sliding her hands down Lina's arms and entwining their fingers together. 

Lina's eyes were wide open and she was panting, but she swallowed and said thickly, ''I love you, my dear. I love you so much...'' 

Rhiannon stroked a strand of hair from Lina's face. "Let's take a nap," she suggested. "All of the sudden, I feel very tired." 

Lina shifted a bit, then sighed in complete contentment as Rhiannon's comforting weight, the soft breath against her cheek, the heartbeat she could feel between her shoulders... lulled her into a deep, dreamless sleep. 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

That evening after dinner, the two women retreated to the study to go over the day's correspondence. 

Lina read Mycroft Holmes' note with a scowl. "Bah!" she exclaimed, crumpling up the paper and tossing it into the fireplace. 

Rhiannon looked up; she had been sorting through a sheaf of telegrams and letters. "What's wrong?," she asked. 

"Holmes' brother!" Lina spat. She began to prowl around the room restlessly, the velvet skirts of her dressing gown whispering as she stalked to and fro. "Mycroft has expressly forbidden me from interviewing Sir Bartholomew. The nerve of the man!" 

"I'm sure he has a good reason," Rhiannon said reasonably, putting her head back down and getting on with her work. 

But Lina was in no mood to be reasonable. She muttered to herself - Rhiannon pretended not to hear the salty oaths her lover was savagely mumbling - and continued to pace back and forth. 

The strawberry-blonde sighed and kept sorting. When Lina was in this sort of mood, it was no use trying to placate her. At last, Rhiannon came upon a telegram that made her eyes open wide. "Here it is!" she said loudly. 

Lina stopped pacing and looked at her keenly. "Good news, my dear?" she drawled. 

"Yes! It's from your friend, Inspector Jean-Claude Pannequet of the Paris police. He's located both Hermione Middleton and Doctor LeFevre." 

"Oh?" Lina sank down on the sofa, suddenly as lethargic as she had been energized. "Do please read it aloud, my dear." 

Rhiannon scanned through the message quickly; when she was finished, she said excitedly, "Hermione Middleton is living in Paris; he has included an address. Doctor LeFevre... hmmm. Inspector Pannequet says the doctor is retired and living in Provence but he would gladly ask the local constabulary to hold him for questioning if you require. Rather profligate with his francs, this Inspector. I've seldom seen such a long telegram." 

"The good Inspector is a paramount criminal investigator, however he does tend to become overly enthusiastic. I shall wire him at once asking him to keep his distance from Doctor LeFevre. We do not want our game flushed from the hedge before we are prepared to take aim." 

Rhiannon put down the telegram. "Then I'd better make arrangements for a trip to Paris," she said. 

Lina smiled. "An excellent idea, my dear. However, I would prefer to visit the doctor in Provence first." She slid down into a lazy slouch, elbows propped on tasseled cushions. "We are very close to uncovering key elements in our little puzzle. I smell it!" 

Rhiannon certainly hoped so. 

The secluded villa where Doctor Georges LeFevre had retired was located a few miles away from the town of Vauvert. Lina made arrangements for their lodging at an inn, then hired a trap at the train station. After journeying for an hour along a dusty, pockmarked road, the two women eventually arrived at the doctor's residence. 

Lina descended first, helping her stiff-limbed lover down from the carriage. A few terse instructions and a generous garnishee ensured that the driver would wait for them while they attended to their business within. 

"Why didn't we send the doctor a message?" Rhiannon asked as they walked up the little lane. "What if he's not at home?" 

"Then we shall camp on his doorstep until he arrives," Lina answered. "The francs I gave our driver are sufficient to keep him at our beck and call for some time. Besides, judging from the number of wine bottles he conceals beneath his seat, I suspect he will have no difficulty in passing away the time while he waits." She glanced at her partner. "My dear, I sent no message because I did not want the doctor alerted to our presence." 

"But surely he'll have no idea why we've come!" Rhiannon exclaimed. "Or is he one of those theosophical physicians who can read minds?" 

Lina snorted. "Sarcasm does not become you, my dear," she replied. "I promise that I shall offer my apologies to the doctor for our abrupt arrival. Will this suffice?" 

Rhiannon didn't answer. She shivered suddenly, goosebumps raising on her arms and shoulders. Her stomach lurched; she had a bad feeling about the coming interview. 

The villa seemed deserted; a small garden in the front of the dwelling was overgrown and weedy. They picked their way to the front door; Lina grasped the handle of an old copper bell and rang it briskly. 

In a few moments, the door was opened by an elderly gentleman. Although his hair was still thick and wavy, it had gone almost completely white except for a few faded blonde streaks. A heavy beard reached nearly to the last button on his waistcoat. "Qu'est-ce que vous voulez, mademoiselles?," he asked brusquely, obviously surprised at having visitors. 

"Parlez-vous Anglais?" Lina inquired. 

"Oui," he replied. "You are British ladies? How may I be of assistance?" 

Much to Rhiannon's surprise, Lina smiled and simpered, fluttering her eyelashes. "My companion and I have unfortunately lost our way," she said with a musical giggle. "We were looking for Le Jardin de la Fontaine. For the spring and the temple ruins and such, you know. We were supposed to meet some friends there; Lord Bertrand - Bertie - told us it was only a short drive but we've been going around for hours! Could you help us, please?" 

She removed a handkerchief from her sleeve and mopped her forehead. "I confess to feeling somewhat faint in all this heat," Lina continued in a kittenish little voice. She lowered her eyes and swayed a little, as if overcome. 

Rhiannon was frankly nonplused; she stood and stared blankly at Lina's sudden transformation from a resourceful woman into a feather-headed and helpless socialite. For a dizzying moment, she wondered if the heat had indeed deranged her lover's mind.. 

Then realizing that the doctor was staring and Lina was giving her a warning glare out of the corner of her eye, Rhiannon decided that she'd better play along. She whipped out her own handkerchief and pretended to mop at her throat and temples, saying weakly, "Yes, so terribly hot and exhausted. We're all but done in, I'm afraid." 

Lina batted her lashes at the doctor some more; the gentleman's suspicious attitude changed in a heartbeat. His chest expanded as he held in his prominent stomach and threw back his shoulders. With a charming smile, LeFevre said gallantly, "Please, come inside and refresh yourselves, mon pauvre petites. You poor dears, such an ordeal! Two such lovely ladies traveling alone and unprotected." He ushered them inside, clucking like an overly protective hen. 

Still waving her handkerchief like a miniature banner, Rhiannon entered the doctor's home, closely followed by Lina. LeFevre saw them installed in his little parlor and bustled away to fetch lemonade and cool cloths, saying, "Rest yourselves, mademoiselles. After I have seen to your comfort, I will have a word with that simpleton driver of yours. The gardens you seek are in Nimes, about fifteen miles from here. No more than an hour's drive, I assure you." 

As soon as they were alone, Rhiannon turned to Lina, incensed. "What the... what the hell were you doing back there?" she asked angrily. 

Lina stifled a giggle. "My dear, the reputation of Frenchmen is well earned. Show them a helpless female and even the roughest villain will transform into an exquisitely mannered cavalier." 

"But why did we have to deceive him?" Rhiannon hissed. "I thought we were just here to ask some questions..." 

"I apologize for not warning you before we arrived, but I feared you would have precisely this reaction to my plan. Please, my dear - as an experienced investigator, allow me to have my way in this matter and follow my lead. You have done admirably thus far." 

The doctor's arrival forestalled any chance of Rhiannon replying. 

As soon as LeFevre had finished fussing over them and settled himself down in a patched old rocking chair, Lina gave another musical giggle. "You know, I think I've heard your name before, Doctor," she said. 

"Please, mon petite, call me Georges," he replied. 

Rhiannon watched as Lina pretended to think, putting a finger to her lips and tilting her head charmingly. "Was it at Lady Martingale's moon viewing soiree last year?" 

"I think not, mademoiselle," the doctor said. 

Lina's eyes began to glitter. "Or perhaps it was at the Prince of Wales' hunting party?" 

LeFevre put down his glass and smiled. "Non," he answered in a patronizing tone, just stopping himself from reaching out and patting Lina's hand. His expression spoke as clearly as words; he believed Lady Evangeline to be a beautiful but incredibly empty-headed dilettante. 

Lina suddenly turned her full gaze upon him; the sheer intelligence and forcefulness of that rich emerald glare struck the elderly gentleman like a blow. "I know!," she said with an artificial smile, snapping her fingers. "You were the man responsible for the murder of Lady Amanda Moon... and one of her sons!" 

Rhiannon and LeFevre gasped in unison. 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

LeFevre recovered from his shock quickly. Assuming a blustering air, he said witheringly, "You are mad, mademoiselle! I insist you leave my house immediately!" 

Lina shook her head. "Not quite yet, sir. I have offered you a challenge; you have yet to answer it." 

"I answer to no one!" LeFevre insisted. He stood up from his chair, eyes flashing with anger... and perhaps a little fear. "Leave now or I will summon the police and have you removed." 

"What do you fear, Georges? Have I struck a nerve?" Lina relaxed; her prey had been flushed from cover and was now struggling in the net. Success was so near she could taste it. 

The doctor's eyes narrowed. "You know nothing, mademoiselle!" he insisted. "Nothing!" 

"Then there is something I should know?" the peer asked. "Monsieur LeFevre, I offer you a chance, one chance to redeem your lost honor - tell me what happened in those long ago days. You are no longer a young man; if you refuse me, I shall have no choice but to continue my investigation elsewhere. However... if any evidence I uncover points to any wrongdoing on your part - however small! - I will do everything within my power to see you pay to the fullest extent of the law." 

LeFevre raised a fist then suddenly, all the anger drained out of him in a rush, as if years of enforced silence and bottled-up conscience were suddenly released and wiped away everything except remorse. His eyes grew rheumy; he seemed to deflate, changing in a twinkling from a vigorous gentleman to a pathetic old man. 

LeFevre sank back down into his chair as if his legs would no longer hold him up. "Who are you?" His voice was heavy, leaden and dull. 

"My name is unimportant," Lina replied seriously. "But know that I am quite capable of making my threats a reality." 

"And if I answer your questions?," he asked, all signs of defiance gone. 

Lina considered. "If you are not directly implicated... well, I can be discreet when circumstances warrent it." 

Rhiannon surreptitiously pulled her notebook from the pocket of her gown. 

LeFevre began speaking slowly, as if each word were being pulled reluctantly from the depths of his suffering soul. "I began working for Sir Arthur Moon in 1852. I had just begun my practice and Sir Arthur's custom was invaluable to me. So you can understand that I was determined to do my best for the boy." 

"Was Sebastian showing signs of madness at so young an age?" Lina asked. 

The doctor looked at her sharply. "I speak of young Bartholomew," he said. "I was a specialist in disorders of the nervous system. Bartholomew was nine years old at the time I first examined him, nor was I the first physician to attend to him. Sir Arthur had consulted numerous physicians regarding the boy's condition; he had high hopes that the new techniques I had developed would cure the child." 

"New techniques? Regarding what?" 

"Bartholomew Moon suffered from a common form of muscular paralysis. He contracted a fever when he was three; afterwards, the muscles of his arms and legs atrophied. He was confined to a wheelchair. While attending a medical conference in Switzerland, I began working with what some regarded as radical techniques aimed at curing the paralysis." 

"Did it work?" 

"Unfortunately, no. Bartholomew was under my care for two years; much to my dismay - and Sir Arthur's extreme disappointment - my techniques did not prove as efficacious as I'd hoped. Then..." He paused and sighed, rubbing a hand across his forehead. 

Lina waited; she instinctively felt that prompting was not necessary. 

After a moment, LeFevre continued. "In September of 1855, I was summoned to Sir Arthur's home. He informed me that he was taking the boy to Switzerland where he'd heard of another specialist who might work a cure. I pressed him for this physician's name - you understand that I did not want him to be deceived by some smooth-talking faker - but he refused. I was relieved when he told me that I would remain as the family's personal physician and so let the matter drop." 

His voice lowered to a near whisper. "Mon Dieu! I wish I hadn't been so complacent." 

"What happened?" 

"Sir Arthur returned six months later, claiming that Bartholomew had been completely cured. I had not been to the house in all that time. When I came a few days after his return to see about some small complaint of Lady Amanda's... well, I didn't know what to believe." 

He rose and went across the room to a small desk that stood against one whitewashed wall. He opened a drawer, continuing, "You understand that I have no proof, mademoiselle. Only suspicions." 

He returned bearing a small slip of torn newspaper. Lina took it from him and read:

MYSTERY CHILD FOUND DROWNED

--March 10. The body of an unknown male child,
aged approximately 12 years, was discovered in the
early hours of the morning in the Thames River near
Southwark. Inspector Charles McDonald has issued
a description of the child and urges anyone who may
be able to identify the victim to come forward.

The boy has dark hair, hazel eyes and a thin build.
Doctor Samuel Forsythe, the police surgeon who
performed an examination, believes the boy may
have suffered from a form of muscular atrophy
common to the children of poorer families.

Anyone possessing information regarding this matter
may contact Inspector McDonald anonymously by
letter or in person at Scotland Yard.

"Perhaps you had better explain your suspicions fully," Lina said finally. "If I understand you correctly, then the implications are horrific to say the least." 

LeFevre sat down again heavily, as if the burden he carried on his conscience had suddenly proven too heavy to carry anymore. "Sir Arthur was desperate to find a cure for Bartholomew. I suspect that hiring me was the final straw. When it proved impossible to cure the boy, I fear Sir Arthur took more direct steps to ensure that his first-born heir was sound in body and able to carry on the family business. 

"You see, Sir Arthur was a very proud man. The fact that a son of his body had proven to be a sickly weakling who couldn't even walk on his own was a source of great frustration and irritation to him. I saw father and son together only a few times; Sir Arthur couldn't stand the sight of the boy and kept him a virtual prisoner, locking him up in an attic room. Please understand, at the time I did not see anything wrong with the gentleman's behavior; Bartholomew was a happy child, inasmuch as he could be, and certainly did not seem to be abused in any way. His attic nursery was decorated gaily, he had plenty of toys and games to occupy his mind, and his mother visited frequently. I never realized until much, much later how very much Sir Arthur hated Bartholomew; in his mind, the child had betrayed him by becoming ill and weak. 

"The fact that Sir Arthur had another, quite healthy son was quite immaterial to him. Sebastian was a mother's boy through and through. Lady Amanda kept him thoroughly spoiled, spending hours combing his curls and stuffing him with sweetmeats. Sir Arthur's opinion was that Sebastian was a lost cause, destined to be nothing more than a wastrel. So to his mind, Bartholomew was the only hope of continuing both the family line and the family business, upholding the proud tradition of the Moon's." 

"What does this have to do with the article?" Rhiannon asked. 

"Mon Dieu! Must I spell it out for you?" LeFevre suddenly exclaimed. He seemed close to tears and sweat beaded his brow. "When Sir Arthur returned from Switzerland, the boy he had with him was not Bartholomew. I'd swear to it! Oh, he bore a good resemblance to the family line and children can change dramatically in appearance after even a very short absence, but I swear that child was not Sir Arthur's son! And then when I saw that article in the paper a week after Sir Arthur's homecoming... well, I feared the worst." 

Rhiannon gulped; she suddenly felt very ill and close to vomiting. "You mean...?" she asked weakly. 

LeFevre nodded reluctantly. "Oui," he replied simply. "I believe that Sir Arthur Moon went to Switzerland for the sole purpose of somehow obtaining a healthy child; when he returned, he somehow killed the sickly Bartholomew and substituted his new, healthy 'son' in the poor boy's place." 

Lina looked grim. "And I suppose that shortly thereafter, Lady Amanda began her descent into madness. And the youngest boy, Sebastian, also began showing signs of instability." 

The doctor sighed. "You are correct, mademoiselle. Lady Amanda's death came as no surprise to me; she had continued to sink further and further into madness. I could do little except keep her calm with drugs. Her maid, Middleton, took care of all her needs. Little Sebastian spent nearly all of his time up in the attic nursery until Sir Arthur had it boarded up; he would cry whenever his 'brother' tried to play with him - he wept so hysterically that sometimes I was summoned to administer a sedative! - so needless to say, the boys were not close." 

"Why did you not contact the authorities with your suspicions?," Lina asked. 

"What could I do?" LeFevre spread his hands wide. "As I said, I had no proof. And to accuse someone of Sir Arthur's caliber without definite evidence was out of the question. After Lady Amanda's death, however, I excused myself from the gentleman's retainer, pleading an overabundance of business concerns and recommending a new doctor for the family. I left England shortly after that." 

There was silence while Lina considered what the doctor had said as well as the implications of his information. Rhiannon used that time to finish writing her notes. 

Lina asked one final question: "Do you remember... was there a bathtub in the attic nursery? Particularly a hip bath?" 

LeFevre thought a moment. He answered slowly, "Yes, there was a hipbath. I remember because it was such a lovely thing; painted with little kittens and cheerful robins. I was especially glad to see it; a child with a disability like Bartholomew stands a great chance of drowning in a regular bathtub because if he slips, he cannot help himself up. The hipbath is so short in length that there was no chance of him slipping beneath the water, but the sides were high enough to ensure sufficient submerging for the necessary cleansing." 

There was more silence; Rhiannon put aside her notes and struggled with her emotions. Like Lina, she now understood the meaning of The Changeling's Moon and her heart ached with unshed tears. She composed herself with an effort. Now was not the time to break down. She had to be strong for the sake of a murdered child and his poor brother, who had tried to tell the world the truth in the only way his madness allowed. 

At last, the peer stood and walked over to the doctor, who waited with a resigned expression on his face. "Monsieur," she said, "I cannot say that you acted with anything approaching honor or even common decency. In fact, I believe you to be a base and villanous coward; if you were not such an old man, I would strike you, I swear! However... I am a woman of my word. You are not directly implicated so I cannot demand that you be punished. 

"But if there is any justice in this world," she continued, her voice strained as she struggled for control, "then you shall be denied a place in Heaven for the crime of your terrible silence all these years... and I fervently hope you are condemned to eternal damnation in the darkest and deepest pit of Hell!!" 

Lina's lips pursed as if she was considering spitting but instead, she made a noise of complete disgust and turned away as if the very sight of the doctor made her sick. 

LeFevre said nothing; his head sunk into his raised hands and his shoulders trembled, but if he wept, it was silently. 

Lina gathered up her things and motioned for Rhiannon to follow her. Before they left, the dark haired woman said over her shoulder, "I hope that poor Sebastian and his mother will be able to rest peacefully when my work is done. I fear, sir, that I cannot say the same for you." 

Together, the two women left the old man alone... alone except for the demons that tormented him, the demons of conscience he had denied for so long. 

CHAPTER NINETEEN

On the way to Paris, Lina remained silent. Rhiannon didn't want to talk about Doctor LeFevre's shocking revelations either. Instead, they sat quietly in their first class compartment, each woman occupied with her own thoughts. 

To Rhiannon, the deliberate murder of an innocent child was an act almost too terrible to contemplate. Oh, when she'd been 'in the trade' in Whitechapel, she'd known about places like The Crib where children were exploited. And factories who hired children as young as five or six to perform dangerous jobs for a few pence a day... and the families who were so desperately poor that they pushed their own sons and daughters into such situations. Then there were the gangs of street arabs who habitually pickpocketed, stole and even attacked their victims with clubs and hobnailed boots - the captains of such gangs were usually no older than twelve or thirteen. 

Beneath the march of London's modern progress there lay a dark, sinister underbelly of vice and crime; however much the upper class might care to deny, it still existed in all its seething, festering glory. And the youth of lower-class families was a large part of it. Victim or perpetrator, the grim shadows of the city swallowed them all. 

But somehow, Sir Arthur's deliberate and cold-blooded murder of his own son was so chilling that Rhiannon could hardly bear to think about it. It seemed so much worse, so much more... evil. 

Rhiannon shivered and checked the watch pinned to her lapel. Another hour to Paris... 

And their ordeal had just begun. 

Hermione Middleton had retired to an apartment in the Rue de Ronsard, a district of Paris that had once been quite fashionable but had now declined into a sort of gentile poverty. The houses were painted in bright yellows and blues, the sidewalks immaculately scrubbed, trees and shrubs beautifully maintained. But the people had an air of quiet desperation that spoke of little money and a lot of pride. These people would never admit that within their houses the furniture had been pawned, they ate the meanest food from cracked plates, their clothes were skillfully patched and their children's faces pinched with hunger. 

After gaining admittance to the building (requiring the 'gift' of a handful of francs to the slit-eyed, mole-speckled landlady), Lina and Rhiannon walked carefully up the rickety, ill-lit steps, three flights in all, until they came to a landing. Wrinkling her nose at the combined smells of boiled cabbage, ancient sweat and an open, fly-buzzing pissoir at the end of the hall, Lina led the way to Middleton's rooms and rapped sharply on the door. 

The door creaked open, revealing little in the semi-gloom except a glittering eye. "Oui?" an old woman's voice croaked. 

"Are you Miss Hermione Middleton?" Lina asked. 

The old woman's eye - the greenish gray of dried moss - took on a hard gleam. "What d'ya want?" she asked suspiciously. 

Suddenly, Lina acted so swiftly that Rhiannon could only gasp. The taller woman shoved her way into the apartment, unceremoniously pushing the old lady out of the way. As soon as Rhiannon scurried inside, she slammed the door closed and stood with her back against it. 

Hermione Middleton was terrified. A wrinkled, liver-spotted hand pressed to her breast, she asked breathlessly, "What... what are you doing? What do you want? I haven't got anything worth stealing..." 

Lina glared at her. In a stern voice she said, "Except a young boy's life." 

Rhiannon was confused. She started to say, "What on earth are you...?" but was silenced by her lover's imperious gesture. 

Lina continued, advancing on the old woman pace by pace, while Middleton retreated further into the apartment. "Cast your mind back many years ago, madame. Did you know how it would end? Did you know Sir Arthur Moon would kill his poor crippled child after bringing home a changeling?" 

The old maid shook her head, her lips moving in protest but no sound emerged save a harsh croak. Lina pressed on, stalking the woman across her rooms. 

"Lady Amanda knew the boy was not her son! She guessed the truth, that the child of her body had been gotten rid of to make way for a healthy pretender. That terrible knowledge drove her mad. Sir Arthur could not afford even the slightest suspicion and so his wife had to die as well. Tell me, Hermione..." Lina's voice sank down to a whisper. "When you pressed her face into the pillows and held on tight, did she struggle much? Did she fight for her life? Did you have to use all of your strength to smother the madwoman who refused to surrender and die?" 

Middleton abruptly fell onto a nearby sofa, gasping for breath. Rhiannon started to go to her but Lina shook her head and continued to speak softly. "Sir Arthur payed you well for your part, did he not? Promotion to housekeeper and two hundred pounds a year are a fairly decent price to pay for murder, I expect. Was the deed a harder task than you expected, Hermione, or were you ripe to take Lady Amanda's life?" 

The old woman looked up; her eyes shimmered with tears and her face was gathered into a crumpled, wrinkled mask; lines of sorrow had etched themselves deep around her mouth and nose. Taking a deep breath, she said in a shaky voice, "You're wrong. It wasn't me." 

Lina opened her mouth but Middleton interrupted. "You can believe what you like, woman, but I'm telling the truth. God knows I've kept it to myself all these long years. I knew, you see. I saw him kill poor Lady Amanda." 

"Who?" Rhiannon asked quietly. 

The old woman rubbed her face and replied, "The boy. It was the boy who killed her." 

Lina and Rhiannon glanced at one another in surprised shock.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Lina recovered her equilibrium first. "Do you mean to suggest that Sebastian killed his own mother?"

Middleton shook her head violently. "No!" she exclaimed. "You think you're Miss Clever, don't you, coming here with that old business and scaring an old woman half to death, but you don't know nothing, do you?"

"I know that Sir Arthur traveled to Switzerland and found a male child of the appropriate age to substitute for his sickly son. I know that he then murdered his first born by cold-bloodedly drowning him in a bath. Lady Amanda went mad; she must have found out about her husband's vile act. And so, somehow, did Sebastian. I assumed..."

"You assumed that I killed my lady?" Middleton cackled; the harsh sound sent chills down Rhiannon's spine. "You take too much on yourself, woman. Why not Sir Arthur? After murdering his son, why stop there?"

Lina's face colored a little. "I admit my deduction was rather shaky," she confessed. "However, you did receive an astonishing promotion in importance and position - from lady's maid to housekeeper is a rise of not a few steps! - not to mention the princely sum Sir Arthur paid you yearly. For a woman inexperienced in running a household, such a rise and such a large salary, you must admit, are suspicious in the extreme."

"Well, you're right about one thing," the old lady said. "I was paid off, but not for murder. For keeping my mouth shut. Sir Arthur needed me. I was the only one who could control little Sebastian after my lady died. He didn't want the shame of having one of his children declared mad; I was the only one Sebastian trusted."

"I see." Lina motioned for Rhiannon to join her and the two women seated themselves on a moth-eaten couch opposite Middleton. "Then if you didn't kill Lady Amanda, and Sebastian wasn't responsible..."

"It was the other one," Middleton said with a gleam in her eye. "The Little Bastard, I used to call him privately. Him that Sir Arthur brung back from the mountains. I never knew where my lord found him but the boy was clever enough; acted like a right little lordling, he did. Even called my lady "mum." But Lady Amanda knew this child wasn't her son; she would cry and beg all day to have Bartholomew brought to her and wouldn't touch the Bastard, even hit him once when he tried to hug her. Sir Arthur was furious; he told everyone that she was mad and had the doctor give her laudanum until she didn't know left from right. But it didn't help."

"How did Sebastian find out about his real brother's death?" Lina asked.

"He saw the whole thing," Middleton confessed. "He used to sneak up to poor Bart's nursery and play with him. But when Sir Arthur went abroad, he ordered his manservant Graves to keep Bart locked up and not to let anyone see him or talk to him. Sir Arthur put it about that he was taking Bart to Switzerland with him, but Graves knew different; he kept the boy fed by sneaking food from the kitchens at night and never let it be known that little Bart was still at home. Sir Arthur ordered the door to the upper staircase locked; only Graves had the key."

"Sir Arthur took a great risk, didn't he? Why not take Bartholomew with him and toss the child from a convenient mountain?"

"I expect it was because my lord couldn't be sure of finding a suitable boy and didn't want to trouble himself with a sickly child while he searched. But once the Bastard was installed, he had to get rid of Bart. So he did, drowning the boy one night and then having Graves throw Bart's body in the Thames. Poor little Sebastian saw it all; he was always a curious child, peeping through keyholes and the like. Then Sebastian went and told his mum what he'd seen."

"And she went mad?"

"Only in the way a mother might if she finds out her husband's murdered her son. Lady Amanda had a fearful row with Sir Arthur that night; Sebastian was hiding under the bed. Sir Arthur told my lady that he'd have her declared insane and committed to an institution, if that was what it took. He ordered her to accept the 'new' Bartholomew, telling her that the thing was done and over and she'd better get used to it. After he left, my lady was so upset, couldn't stop crying. I gave her half a grain of laudanum to help her sleep..." The old lady paused. "I must've fallen asleep myself because I didn't hear him come in."

"Who?"

"The Bastard. When I woke up, he was sitting on top of Lady Amanda, pushing her face into the pillows. I couldn't think straight, I couldn't move. His face... it was like a demon's. Pure evil! Oh, the Bastard was a truer son of Sir Arthur's than the lord's own poor little boys. Well, when I finally came to myself, of course I tried to stop him. But it was too late. I roused Sir Arthur, but he just looked at my lady, her beautiful face turned so ugly and purple, and said he'd take care of it. He had that foreign doctor, LeFevre, come in and make up a death certificate, calling it an 'accident.' But Sir Arthur and I both knew it was anything but. The next day is when he offered me the money and the housekeeping position."

"Did Sebastian know the truth about his mother's death?"

"Yes," Middleton answered heavily. It was clear that she was tiring. "He'd been hiding beneath the bed all evening."

Rhiannon was horrified. "How could a child kill a grown woman like that?"

"If the woman was weakened by emotional distress, and further stupefied by the application of laudanum... well, I assume Bartholomew's substitute was healthy and strong. It would have been simple enough," Lina answered matter-of-factly.

"That isn't what I mean," Rhiannon said darkly. She felt sickened by the whole affair and began to wish she'd never heard of The Changeling's Moon, never gone to Blackpoole's art exhibition.

"I know, my dear," Lina said, taking up Rhiannon's hand and squeezing it gently in a comforting gesture. She turned back to Middleton; the old lady sat with her eyes half-closed.

"We will take our leave of you, madame," the peer said. "However, you should know that I intend to confront the man who calls himself Sir Bartholomew Moon with this information and accuse him of murder. Your part in the affair is sure to become public; you had better prepare yourself for a summons from the Crown. Do not consider flight; I have friends in the Paris police department who would be more than happy to keep a keen eye upon you and your activities. Do I make myself understood? Or do you prefer an early arrest and languishing in a jail cell until the trial?"

"No, I won't run," Middleton said. "I'm too old to start a new life and besides, my pension is barely enough to keep body and soul together as it is. I'll testify if it comes to that... be good to see the Bastard get his after all these years."

The old woman stirred faintly. "Is that all you come for?" she asked querulously. "If it is, I'd thank you to leave now and leave me be."

Without another word, Rhiannon and Lina left, the peer offering her silently weeping partner a handkerchief as they walked out into the Paris sunshine.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Once back in London, events began to move with such rapidity that Rhiannon felt almost dizzy.

First, Lina arranged for an interview with Mycroft Holmes, refusing to allow her lover to read it before it was carried away by a messenger. Within hours after sending the cryptic message, Rhiannon found herself riding in a closed coach to an unknown destination, a grim-faced Lina by her side.

When they descended from the coach, Rhiannon was surprised to find that they were in the street just opposite the Diogenes Club - a curious gentlemen's club that was Mycroft's primary headquarters. However, rather than crossing the street to the Diogenes, Lina led her into a nondescript brownstone building.

As they entered, the dark haired woman explained, "This is Mycroft's personal quarters, where he sleeps on those rare occasions when Her Majesty's business does not keep him up at all hours, burning the midnight oil."

The entry hall was small but richly decorated; Persian carpets muffled their footsteps; the walls gleamed, covered with a deep crimson paper whose ornate pattern was picked out in silver and copper leaf. Gilt mirrors reflected their faces as they marched along the corridor; at the end, the hall opened up into an enormous wood paneled room. Standing in the center of the room, his bewhiskered face reflecting grave concern, stood the corpulent form of Sherlock Holmes' brother, Mycroft.

"Lady St. Claire," he said with an acknowledging nod. "And Miss Moore. Do come in; I have been expecting you."

Lina settled herself on a nearby divan, ruffling out the skirts of her severe forest green gown. Without frill or decoration, it made her seem quite business-like. "Mister Holmes," she began, "do you recall that several days ago, you expressly forbid me from interviewing Sir Bartholomew Moon with regards to his brother, the artist Sebastian Moon?"

"I do," he replied, sitting down with a grunt and lacing his fingers across the full-moon prominence of his belly. "But pray tell me, what has that to do with the crisis you referred to in your message?"

At Rhiannon's inquiring glance, Lina said softly, "In my missive, I told Mister Holmes that I had information which could be of the gravest national importance and involved a prominent member of Her Majesty's government."

Rhiannon nodded in understanding. She felt cold, as if a freezing wind was blowing across her flesh, a wind that smelled of death and decay. Involuntarily she shivered, burying her hands into the skirts of her black-and-white houndstooth check gown.

Lina continued, "The business to which I referred is thus..."

For the next three-quarters of an hour, Lina carefully unfolded the entire story, from Rhiannon's purchase of Sebastian's painting The Changeling's Moon to their subsequent investigation, from their interviews with A.B. Montrose and Doctor LeFevre and concluding with a word-for-word account of Lina's interrogation of Hermione Middleton.

Finished at last, the peer settled back, her half-slitted green eyes glittering like cut crystal. "I trust you will now allow me to speak to Sir Bartholomew Moon - or rather, to the man who took that dead child's place."

Mycroft did not speak for several long minutes; when he did, he kept his gaze focused on his folded hands. "I fear that such an action is ill-advised, Lady St. Claire."

Lina was frankly astonished. "What the Devil do you mean?" she asked.

"Sir Bartholomew is one of Her Majesty's senior councilors and serves on the Queen's Privy Council," he replied. He raised his eyes for the first time; they were as hard and cold as gray river stones. "In point of fact, he is one of the Queen's favored gentlemen. This fanciful tale of yours... well, I implore you to observe the facts pragmatically."

"Pragmatically?" Lina's nostrils flared; Rhiannon recognized the signs of impending fury. "I am not sure I take your meaning clearly, sir."

Mycroft's face was expressionless. "Lady St. Claire, you must understand. Sir Bartholomew occupies a position of some importance in government; he comes from a background of wealth, privilege and respectability. He supports a number of charitable institutions and is well beloved by his peers. You ask me to believe a hodge-podge of suppositions and suspicions related by people who have no firm evidence except their own recollections. Pitting one against the other, what would you believe?"

Lina's breath quickened; her eyes began to simmer with anger. "You are being deliberately obtuse!" she cried. "If you refuse to believe the facts when they are placed before you, then let us confront Sir Bartholomew privately. Let him answer my accusations himself; such an action, taken discreetly, can do no harm."

"Harm?" Mycroft seemed to rouse himself, shaking off inertia and revealing his powerful personality, reminding Rhiannon of a sleeping lion suddenly snarling and showing its fangs. "Harm? You ask me to confront one of the most powerful men in Her Majesty's government and accuse him of murder? Soil his beloved late father's memory with accusations of acts so vile I can scarcely comprehend them? Accuse him of being a cuckoo in the nest and therefore unentitled to his inheritance?"

He shook his massive head. "If anyone else were to come here and relate such a wild story, I would be inclined to have them committed. Certainly I would have them removed, by force if necessary. However, my brother holds you in the greatest esteem; in honor of this fact, I will simply ask you to leave and forget about any scheme you may have regarding Sir Bartholomew."

Lina stood up, anger apparent in every line of her body. "I do not require your permission to act, nor do I require your blessing to withdraw," she said in a withering tone. "You may presume that I shall do what my conscience requires; one can only hope that you will do the same."

Mycroft grunted. "I warn you, Lady St. Claire, do not do anything foolish or hasty." 

"You warn me?" Lina curled her lip in scorn. 

"I can be a powerful enemy," Mycroft replied without rancor. "And you may assume that I shall do whatever is required to protect Her Majesty and our government from any hint or trace of scandal or harm. From anyone," he added ominously. 

Lina sniffed. "So you say." She pulled on her kidskin gloves, taking her time to make sure each fitted without a wrinkle. The expression on her face suggested that she had smelled something foul and was determined to ignore the stench with well-bred dignity and grace. 

Rhiannon stood as well; Mycroft's next words stunned her into immobility. "Your notebook, Miss Moore?" he asked although by his tone, it was more of a command. 

"I beg your pardon?," Rhiannon asked, hand diving into the pocket of her gown. Her fingers clutched the little silver-covered notebook and mechanical pencil that had been her lover's gift. 

Mycroft cleared his throat. "I know from my brother's anecdotes that you always carry a little notebook with you. I require the book, if you please, miss. No doubt you have used it to take down the so-called facts that Lady St. Claire has related here today; I feel it necessary to confiscate such a dangerous document." 

As Rhiannon reluctantly handed over the notebook, Lina asked furiously, "Why? To add insult to injury?" 

Mycroft's response was mild. "No. To prevent you from making a dreadful and disastrous mistake." He tucked the little book into the inner pocket of his jacket, saying, "Good day, ladies." 

It was a clear dismissal. 

Lina swept from the room; after a glance over her shoulder at the silent, still mountain that was Mycroft Holmes, Rhiannon followed. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The next few days were tense; Lina secluded herself in the study, smoking cigarette after cigarette, staring broodily into space. On those few occasions when she rose from the couch, she did so only to pace back and forth, fuming and stamping up and down the room until Rhiannon was half afraid she would wear holes in the rug. 

The servants walked on tiptoe; even Rhiannon knew better than to try and jolly Lina out of this black mood. It was her lover's way of venting frustration and clearing her head; besides, she snapped like a wasp-stung lioness at anyone who dared to beard her in that murky, smoke-filled den. Instead, Rhiannon concerned herself with the minutiae of domestic life, taking a long delayed inventory of the linen closets - among other things. 

At long last, the storm passed. After voraciously consuming an enormous breakfast, including two pots of tea, the peer called for her patiently waiting wife. 

Before she entered, Rhiannon pinched her cheeks to make them rosy. She was wearing a morning gown of palest blue accented with azure ribbons and flounces of  fine Irish lace; brocade slippers encased her finely boned feet. She slid aside the pocket door and peeked around the edge. 

"You rang, my lady?" she asked pertly, turquoise eyes sparkling with good humor. 

"Ah, my dear!" Lina replied. "Do come in." 

Cautiously, Rhiannon entered and her nose wrinkled immediately. "Phew!" she exclaimed. "I'm surprised you can live in this stench." In the dim recesses of the study, she could just make out the form of Lina, stretched out on the sofa. 

"Oh? I had not noticed." Lina replied languidly. "Open the windows if you must." 

Rhiannon did just that, even going so far as to thrust her head outside and breath a grateful lungful of fresh, clean air. Well, relatively fresh, she thought ruefully. Although it had recently rained, the familiar scents of London - particularly horse dung and industrial fumes - were still highly evident. 

She turned back into the room. "I heard from Violet," Rhiannon said brightly, referring to her Scottish cousin.* "She says Fyvie is doing quite well, chasing rabbits on the old Duke's estate and generally raising havoc. I'm glad I decided to send her away for a little while; London didn't agree with her. I felt sorry for the poor puppy, cooped up in the house all the time. At least now she'll have a few months of exercise and fun before being confined again." 

Lina snorted. "That pet wolfhound of yours would no doubt thrive in a burning desert. Why, I believe she has gained a stone in weight since you adopted her! And she was far from a prisoner in durance vile, my dear. Solange claims that her many walks with Fyvie never failed to attract the interest of eligible young gentlemen, and has sorely complained of a lack of such now that your hound is in Scotland! Nevertheless, if the dog is happy and this makes you happy, then I am overjoyed indeed." 

Rhiannon walked over to the sofa and unceremoniously shoved Lina's feet off, seating herself with a flounce of ribboned skirts. "I take it you have gotten over your sulks?" 

"I never sulk," Lina replied, sitting up and putting an arm around her lover's shoulders. Her ebony hair had come down from its pins and now curled in an inky cascade over the arm of the sofa. "I have been exercising the processes of ratiocination, considering my untenable position and a number of possible solutions." 

"Oh?" Rhiannon smiled. "I thought you were sitting in here feeling sorry for yourself." 

"Well, perhaps a bit of that as well," the peer said, returning her lover's grin. "However, I have decided what is to be done on the question of Bartholomew Moon." 

"If Mycroft doesn't think you have a case..." 

Lina interrupted impatiently. "I know I am justified in my belief that a stout British jury would bring in a verdict of 'guilty' if the facts - including the testimony of Hermione Middleton - are placed before them. Why Mycroft Holmes refuses to see what a blind man could easily comprehend is beyond me. I have rejected the notion that he has been corrupted by his position of power; Mycroft is no eminence grise, pulling the puppet's strings behind the throne. He has legitimate concerns, of this I am certain; unfortunately, his concerns and my own conscience are at loggerheads. I must do that which I feel necessary and in this case... well, my course of action is clear." 

"What do you intend to do?" 

"I will confront Bartholomew Moon," Lina said. "I will confront him with the evidence we have gleaned and warn him that if he does not come forward with a confession of his own accord, I shall take it upon myself to make the facts public knowledge." 

"Isn't that dangerous?" Rhiannon laid a hand on Lina's knee. "He could sue you for libel and slander, among other things. And what will Mycroft think? He has forbidden you from pursuing the case further!" 

The peer snapped her fingers. "I care not a jot or a tiddle for the commands of Mycroft Holmes," she replied. "He is not my lord and master! My dear, after careful thought and much consideration, I have determined that this thing must be done. However, you need not accompany me... I do not know how Moon may react; many gentlemen respond with violence when they feel threatened." 

Rhiannon leaned against Lina, capturing the taller woman's hand and bringing it to her lips for a lingering kiss. "Of course I'm coming with you," she said fiercely. "Don't be a silly goose! I haven't been taking all those baritsu lessons for nothing! And I'll bring my quarterstaff, too. If Moon so much as looks cross-eyed in your direction, I'll beat him to a bloody pulp." 

 "My doughty knight," Lina murmured with a sigh. She shifted her position until she lay with her head in Rhiannon's lap. Her eyes were half-closed but they gleamed with emerald fire. "Galloping to the rescue of your helpless maiden..." 

Rhiannon's lips quirked up into a small smile. She did so enjoy these little love games. "And after I slay the fire breathing dragon? What reward will you offer your valiant champion?" 

Lina sighed again; her body relaxed into a sensuously lazy pose. "Much, much more than a kiss," she half-whispered, curving up an arm to draw her lover's face down closer to her own. 

Rhiannon resisted that invitation to a kiss. Instead, she bent her head and nipped the hollow of the dark haired woman's throat, making Lina's hips buck a little. "How much more?" she asked huskily. The feel of her lover's pliant body beneath her hands made her heart race in excitement. 

"I am but a weak and helpless maiden," Lina answered, gasping as she felt Rhiannon's teeth once more. "Take what you will, Madame Knight. I cannot stop you from reaping the rewards of your conquest." 

Rhiannon growled in reply. 

It had been several days, after all. 

But before the gallant knight lost control entirely and devoured the luscious banquet that her defenseless maiden placed so generously before her, she had to leap to the defense and take care of one last dragon... 

...the forgotten and wide open door of the study. 

It would be another couple of days before Lina put her plan into action. In the meantime, following her lover's instructions, Rhiannon sent out telegrams to various people, inquiring after the whereabouts of Michael Graves - Sir Arthur Moon's former valet and accomplice. 

At last, Lina said, "The search has proven fruitless, I fear. Mister Graves most likely fled the country long ago and now dwells under an alias in a foreign land. Should it prove necessary, a more concentrated investigation may be successful, but we have no more time. I have learned that Bartholomew Moon is planning a voyage to India on Her Majesty's orders; we must finish our business with him before he eludes our grasp entirely." 

Rhiannon placed the remaining correspondence in a pile to be dealt with later. "Do you think he's really running away, love? Isn't it just a coincidence?" 

"Pleasant as it may be to believe, my dear, I very much doubt that Moon's sudden departure from British soil is a mere happenstance. I would not put it past Mycroft Holmes to have warned the devil." 

The strawberry blonde sighed. "Very well," she replied. "When do we leave?" 

Lina's face seemed to sharpen, the fine bones taking on a razor's edge. She looked at Rhiannon intently; every line in her body thrummed with a mixture of impatience and keen anticipation. She reminded the other woman of nothing so much as a hound, baying and eager for the hunt. "In an hour, Moon will be taking lunch at his club. We shall confront him there." 

"I'll just go and change," Rhiannon said hastily, hurrying from the study. 

Lina followed her up the stairs. While they were changing their clothes in the bedroom, Rhiannon asked with a puzzled frown, "Is that really necessary?" 

The peer looked up; in her hands she held a blunt nosed revolver. Tucking it into the inner pocket of her jacket, she replied darkly, "It may very well be required, my dear. I take no chances with this dangerous individual." 

Swiftly, the two ladies finished dressing. 

In a mere half hour, they were in a hired hansom cab, jolting along the cobblestoned streets to Sir Bartholomew Moon's club. 

Rhiannon prayed that Lina wouldn't do anything foolish. 

The ebony haired woman with the madly glittering eyes looked capable of almost anything.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Lina, dressed in a gentleman's dark gray suit with her hair concealed beneath a bowler hat, gained admittance to the Nautilus League, a club frequented by the higher level servants of Her Majesty's government.

Rhiannon was allowed in after Lina's assertion to the skeptical porter that the petite strawberry blonde was a niece of Sir Bartholomew's and in 'dire straights.' After a few minutes of fervent whispering, accompanied by a subtle exchange of pound notes, the two women entered the club.

Sir Bartholomew Moon always dined in a private room. Having finished the cheese course and engaged in enjoying a brandy-laced coffee, he looked up sharply when two strangers - one of those a woman - barged unceremoniously into his presence.

"What the Devil is the meaning of this?" he asked angrily. "Who are you? And what the Devil are you doing here? This is a private room and I'll thank you to leave at once!"

Lina closed the door and locked it, shooting the bolt home with a click. She removed her bowler hat, allowing a wealth of ebony hair to slither across her shoulders. "I am Lady Evangeline St. Claire," she announced proudly. "My companion is Rhiannon Moore. We have come, sir, to..."

Moon interrupted with a braying laugh. "You're some of those damned suffragettes, I suppose?" He leaned back in his chair, removing the napkin at his neck and flinging it down on the table. "You've wasted your time coming here. I have no intention of interceding in the arrests of your so-called sisters or anything else in a similar vein. Now leave or I shall have you removed with force!"

Lina looked at him narrowly. Sir Bartholomew Moon was quite obese; the buttons of his waistcoat strained to contain his prominent stomach. His hair was dark brown, liberally sprinkled with rusty gray, and his little piggy eyes were slitted in anger, lower lip thrust out in what seemed a monumental pout. A bandaged foot was propped up on a cushioned stool; Lina concluded that the lord suffered from gout.

"While I certainly sympathize with the suffragettes and their mission to gain the rights of individuals thus far granted solely to men, that is not my business here today," Lina replied calmly. "I have come regarding, among other things, the murder of Lady Amanda Moon."

Her next statement cut into the angry Moon's spluttered denial. Tossing her bowler hat onto a nearby table, she said, "A murder committed by you."

The lord was shocked into silence.

"You are mad!" Moon finally hissed. "My dear mother..." 

"But that is the point," Lina said coolly. She took a seat close to Moon, crossing her legs and propping an elbow on the dining table. "Lady Amanda was not your mother." 

Rhiannon quietly sat down on one of the leather banquettes that ran the length of the room. She would let Lina handle this confrontation, but kept her staff near to hand just in case. She also had charge of a package they had brought with them; a square parcel wrapped in brown paper which she laid on the floor near her feet. 

Moon's attitude suddenly changed. He drew himself up as much as his bulk allowed. "I do not understand you, madame." He seemed cool and confident but Rhiannon noticed a tiny trickle of sweat that tracked moistly down the fleshy rolls at the back of his neck. 

Lina seemed equally confident. "Allow me to refresh your memory," she began. "In September 1855, Sir Arthur Moon traveled to Switzerland, supposedly seeking a cure for his sickly first born son named Bartholomew. However, that child remained confined at home, locked away from his mother's care and indeed, from contact with anyone save the lord's villainous valet. When Sir Arthur returned home in March, he was accompanied by a boy - a strong, healthy child - and he proceeded to install this pretender as his heir. Sir Arthur's subsequent murder of Bartholomew, while certainly a heinous act, is not pertinent at this time although I have no doubt that you were aware of the facts in the case. Lady Amanda's death, however... that is another tale." 

Moon opened his mouth to speak. "You are mad," he repeated. 

"On the contrary, I assure you that I am quite sane." Lina started absently tapping her fingers on the tabletop. "You were that pretender, sir. A child gotten from who knows what background or situation... and when you found your new life threatened by Lady Amanda - who very naturally objected over the loss of her own child - you took steps to ensure her silence. Smothering her in her own bed. The maid who witnessed the act was bribed into silence by your new 'father.' But Sebastian, who also saw, who also witnessed the death of his brother, kept silent of his own accord." 

She hitched her chair slightly closer to Moon and continued, "We can only guess what horrors wracked Sebastian's young mind. Inadvertently forced to watch both brother and beloved mother die, his developing psyche sought refuge in madness. When he grew older, although he still could not speak aloud, he revealed the truth in the only way he could... in his paintings." 

"My brother was a lunatic," Moon said hoarsely. "He killed father..." 

"Ah, yes. I concede that Sebastian did indeed take Sir Arthur's life; no doubt he felt this action justified by the hell he had endured for so many years. Knowing the boy who grew beside him to manhood was nothing more than a changeling, a murdering cuckoo who had made its nest safe by killing off any rivals. But you had no reason to fear Sebastian, did you? He was too traumatized, too young, the tale too fantastic to be believed. I wonder..." 

She paused and leaned forward slightly, "How did you know that Sebastian intended to kill Sir Arthur?" 

"What do you mean?" Moon was sweating in earnest now although outwardly, he remained calm. 

"When the police found Sir Arthur's body, and Sebastian was missing, they all assumed the worst - that Sebastian had suffered the same fate as his father but his corpse was somehow concealed. However, when you were summoned to the scene, you immediately concluded that Sir Arthur's murderer was none other than his son. How did you draw such a conclusion?" 

Rhiannon leaned forward, waiting in suspense for the lord's reply. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Moon blustered and threatened, but in the end he knew he was well and truly caught. After glancing around, he licked his lips and said, "Are you a witch, madame?" 

Lina replied, "No. I am an intelligent, resourceful woman, sir. Well able to observe even that which is well hidden, even when it is presented to me by a madman's hand." 

At Lina's nod, Rhiannon picked up the mysterious parcel and tore off the paper, revealing Sebastian's painting, The Changeling's Moon. "I purchased this painting at Blackpoole's," Rhiannon said to Moon. "I found it intriguing and was fascinated by Sebastian's sorry tale. Lady Evangeline saw more than I did, however. Look!" 

She pointed to several sets of figures in the painting. "See... here's a pair of boy fairies playing; one of them carries a crutch. Next, the smaller boy is all alone - his crippled friend is gone but he appears again here. Notice how the devilish figure is 'giving' the lame one a bath? Or so it appears. Closer examination will show that the lame fairy is actually being drowned." 

Rhiannon stood up, bringing the painting directly beneath Moon's nose. "The devil figure comes again, this time bearing a bird on his back. A cuckoo, in fact. Then the bird is shown making a comical nest on a lady fairy's face - but again, a closer look will show the scene's more sinister aspects. I could go on but I don't think it necessary." 

She was suddenly filled with anger; one child's life taken in a brutal act, another's wrecked and ruined. Shaking the painting, she exclaimed, "Who are you? As a child yourself, how could you have brought yourself to murder? What sort of monster were you? What kind of monster are you now?" 

Moon was clearly frightened. He threw up his hands and said in a high pitched voice, "She was going to make him take me back! That bitch hated me and wanted me sent back home!" His eyes slewed around wildly. "I wouldn't go! She couldn't make me!" 

"Where is 'home'?" Lina asked. 

Moon replied almost desperately, spittle flying from his lips as he spoke faster and faster, "Mum and Daddy sold me to him. There was never enough to eat, it was always cold, we were so poor, I hated it there but he came, oh God! He was like an angel. He taught me what to say and how to act. Gave me anything I wanted, anything at all! But she didn't want me; she was going to make me go back. I wouldn't! I wouldn't!" 

His voice dropped to a cunning whisper. "So I killed her. But I didn't know the little brat was hiding under the bed. Father said he wouldn't talk but I made sure. I used to lock him up in the attic for hours, whispering to him through the keyhole. I told him what would happen if he told anyone. Then when he was older and left home, he was truly mad. I made him that way. Nobody would believe him. Nobody!" 

"How did you know that Sebastian was going to kill Sir Arthur?" Lina asked gently. 

"I went to see the brat. He had a list; said all the people on it were going to pay. Father wouldn't let me take over the business even though I'd been working there for years - miserly bastard! So I encouraged Sebastian, even gave him an idea how to go about it. I knew he'd be caught - madmen are sly but not very clever! - and I knew that I'd inherit everything. With Father out of the way, I could do anything I wanted and he couldn't complain or carp at me anymore." 

Rhiannon felt sick. Bartholomew Moon was nothing more than a spoiled brat, albeit a dangerous one. Foiled in getting his own way, he resorted to murder and worse at the drop of a hat, thinking no more of getting rid of those who inconvenienced him than if he were cracking a troublesome flea. 

She sidled backwards, trying not to attract Moon's attention. She suddenly felt the need to have her staff closer at hand. 

After a few moments, Moon snapped out of his trance. He wiped his face with a handkerchief and shook himself all over. "You haven't any proof," he said to Lina, voice and bearing indicating he was now completely in control and unbearably smug about the fact. "It's my word against yours. I've heard something of your reputation... you're nothing more than vile tribades, you and that red-headed 'companion.' If you dare to make any of this public, I'll see you in court. By the time my solicitors are finished with you, you'll be lucky to have the clothes on your back." 

Lina shrugged. "Perhaps I will take that chance," she replied. She rose and collected her hat, stuffing her hair under the brim. "It may be that I waste both time and breath imploring you to do the decent thing and own up to your crimes." 

Moon laughed; it was an unpleasant sound. "Confess to what?" His bottom lip thrust out again. "Crimes that come from the overactive imagination of a depraved female? Crimes that cannot be proven by any means? You amuse me, madame." 

"I see that it was indeed a waste to have the slightest hope that you possessed a shred of decency or honor," Lina retorted. 

Before she and Rhiannon left, they heard Moon's voice raised behind them. "Remember what I said, your ladyship. Attempt to harm me and I will surely crush you! Do you hear me? I will crush you into dust!" 

Before the wide open eyes of the porter, Lina and Rhiannon took their leave. 

On their way back home, Rhiannon asked, "What do you intend to do now, love?" 

Lina absently caressed the frame of the painting that had begun the whole sordid business. "I do not know, my dear. Moon is a powerful man with many friends. True, I had only the slightest hope that he would volunteer to come forward... well, you have seen with your own eyes how thoroughly those hopes were crushed." Her lip curled as she said that word. 

"Do we have enough to go to the police?" 

"Unfortunately, no," Lina replied. She spent a moment lighting a cigarette, tossing the spent lucifer out into the street. It was raining again and a spray of tiny droplets came in through the open sides of the hansom, wetting her trousers. 

"Oh, no doubt I could interest them, but Moon's position is such that any reasonable being would hesitate in accusing him of any wrongdoing without ironclad proof. We simply do not have enough. The testimony of one old woman is unlikely to stand up under skilled cross-examination... we need much more before we can hope to see Moon in the defendant's box." 

She smoked moodily for a while; just before they reached Grosvenor Square, the peer said, "There are one or two other avenues of exploration left to us, my dear. Let us exhaust all the possibilities before admitting defeat." 

Rhiannon nodded; snuggling closer to her beloved, the familiar scents of her lover's body - lilac water, talcum powder and tobacco - surrounding her like a comforting cloud, it was almost easy to believe that everything would turn out all right. 

Almost. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

"Still no word from our friends at the Yard?" Lina asked a few days later.

Rhiannon shook her head. "Nothing. They haven't been able to locate Graves. The closest they've gotten is his mother, who claims not to have heard from her son in years. Maybe he's dead and buried somewhere." She felt close to tears of frustration. "And so's our case."

Lina immediately got up and put her arms around the smaller woman. "My dear, you must not give up hope. Some investigations are like this; a great deal of time may pass before a new bit of information reveals itself and the chase begins again. Also, remember that our friends have no idea why they seek Graves; such discretion is necessary when one deals with a delicate subject like this. And withholding information unfortunately hampers their efforts."

"I have a feeling that Bartholomew Moon will never be caught," Rhiannon said with a sniff. "He's too slippery by half."

"Well, I am not willing to wait too much longer before embarking upon my next course," Lina said, giving her lover a squeeze. "Specifically, that of turning to the press. Although I deplore the proliferation of sensationalist literature - particularly those so-called 'news' journals such as The Daily Snoop, I am willing to exploit their eagerness to publish articles on the most scandalous of subjects, so much the better when said scandals involve the aristocracy or those in power." 

"Well, I'm sure Bennie would help you if you asked," Rhiannon said. "On the other hand, The Times doesn't often stoop to the sensational, do they?" 

"These journalist fellows all know one another," Lina replied. She guided her lover to the sofa and sat her down gently, taking a place beside her. "Mister Salt may be able to recommend a fairly decent gentleman of the Fourth Estate." 

Jackson, the tall and leanly-fleshed butler, entered the study with a discreet cough. "A gentleman to see you, milady," he intoned. "Mister Benjamin Salt." 

"Bennie!" Rhiannon jumped up from the sofa. 

Benjamin Salt sauntered inside. "Sugarbaby... had I known you'd come up so far in the world, I'd have touched you for at least a tenner," he quipped. 

Rhiannon threw her arms around him for a hug. Lina suppressed a twinge of jealousy and smiled at the newcomer in welcome. "Good morning, Mister Salt," she drawled. "What brings you to our humble establishment?" 

Benjamin took a seat in a leather chair, one leg propped over the arm, foot swinging nonchalantly. Rhiannon returned to her seat but not before giving the young gentleman a quick kiss on the cheek. "I just wandered by to see if you'd made any progress in your investigations." 

Lina shot Rhiannon a warning glance. "Not as such," she answered cautiously. "We are in a state of abeyance at the moment." 

Rhiannon wrinkled her nose; she'd wanted to tell Benjamin about the affair but Lina had convinced her otherwise; of all the issues at stake in such a complex and delicate case, discretion was paramount. 

"What have you been doing?" Rhiannon asked, changing the subject. 

Benjamin laughed, pushing a lock of blonde hair out of his eyes. "The usual. Chafing at the reins, wishing I were out in the line of fire, so to speak. Lord, but I do sometimes miss the excitement of being a journalist in the field!" 

"What? Toiling mightily in the pursuit of news to earn your little crust, only to be told by an editor that they're cutting your story for lack of space!" Rhiannon giggled and Benjamin chimed in. 

Lina made a face. "I confess some ignorance in the field of journalism, Mister Salt. Perhaps you would care to enlighten me on the day to day workings of a newspaper?" 

For the next three-quarters of an hour, Benjamin regaled the ladies with a number of diverting stories, mostly involving the interaction between newsmen and the subjects they wrote about. 

"...and so Perry Bonham-Deering asked Baron Schopenhaur - I mean Helmut the ladykiller, not Arthur the philosopher (who is no relation, by the way) - 'Is it true, sir, that you keep a horseplow in your schloss?'... to which the baron replied, 'It's not a horseplow, you ignorant swine. It's a hausfrau - my wife!'" 

They all laughed, Lina the hardest because she knew the Baron in question. In fact, he and his wife Sophie were well known to her; they had a 'marriage of convenience' - so termed because Baron Helmut, despite his reputation with the ladies, actually preferred young men in his bed. And Sophie had a predilection for opera girls. 

The hypocrisy of our society never fails to amaze me, Lina thought, watching Rhiannon serve Benjamin with tea and cookies. Quite a number of the gentlemen who present a faultless image to the public behave quite differently in private. Hmph. I could tell Mister Salt a story or two myself.

"Oh, my lady!" Benjamin exclaimed. "I actually did have a reason for visiting you... besides enjoying the company of two such lovely and delightful ladies," he added, waggling his sandy brows. 

"You're such a terrible flirt!" Rhiannon said, smacking his hand lightly. "Go practice your deathless charm on that policeman of yours, Bennie. It's wasted on us." 

"Flattery is never wasted," he retorted with a twinkle in his blue eyes. "Besides, I need to keep myself in shape when it comes to gallant gestures. I must attend a little gathering given by the wife of one of our senior editors... no doubt I will be paired with her odious daughter Odette. Ugh! All elbows and spots, afflicted with the worse case of overbite I have seen since I quit the horse racing circuit. Still, one must endure these things if one is to rise in one's profession." 

"Well, just be your usual lovely self and I'm sure the odious Odette will fall head-over-heels." Rhiannon's eyes sparkled as Benjamin mimed gagging. 

"I won't take up any more of your time today, ladies," Benjamin said, brushing his trouser legs free of crumbs. "Oh! Damn me for an feather-head! I completely forgot!" He quickly walked out of the room and returned with a folded newspaper. 

"Is that this morning's issue?," Lina asked. "We have it delivered, but thank you for..." 

Benjamin waved his free hand to shush her. "No, this is a special afternoon edition," he said. "Fresh from the press. So fresh, in fact, that my poor gloves were covered in ink, a incident which will surely earn me a scolding from my valet." 

He unfolded the paper with a theatrical gesture. "Read all about it!" he cried in a fair imitation of the corner newsboys. 

Lina peered at the paper, then snatched it from his hands and began to read avidly. 

Rhiannon hadn't been near enough to see. "What's all this about, Bennie?" she asked. 

He patted her on the shoulder. "You'll see, Sugarbaby." 

In a few moments, Lina stopped reading. The paper slowly sank from her hands as she said in a dazed voice, "I do not believe it. It cannot be true." 

"I assure you it is true," Benjamin replied. "Happened just this morning. By sheer coincidence, Joseph Tannersby - one of our best men - was at the scene. Saw the whole thing happen right before his astonished eyes. He scribbled the first draft on the back of an envelope and sent it down to the offices. Created quite a stir when it arrived." 

"Lina?" Rhiannon resisted the urge to shake the obviously shaken woman into sensibility. "What is it? What's wrong?" 

"Read for yourself." 

Lina offered the paper; Rhiannon took a look at the headlines and gasped in surprise.

The two women looked at one another. 

"Do you really think that...?" Rhiannon started to ask. Lina shook her head, indicating silence. 

Benjamin frowned. "Isn't this a ripping coincidence? I mean, only the other day you were down in the morgue looking for information on this fellow, and this morning he gets run over by a runaway carriage." 

"Is that what it was?" Rhiannon said slowly. 

"Well, yes!" Benjamin exclaimed. "Look, it's all right here. He - by that I mean Sir Bartholomew Moon - had just left Number 10 Downing Street. He was apparently attending some hush-hush secret meeting of some kind. Just as he started to step out into the street, a runaway carriage plowed him over and kept right on going. The police have issued a description of the coach and driver but really, there were so many conflicting descriptions that the peelers could probably arrest half of London and be sure of getting a match. 

"At any rate, by lucky chance there was a doctor in the crowd. He attended to Sir Bartholomew right there in the street, claiming it was too dangerous to move him, and gave him an injection of stimulant. After working on the man for a few minutes, he said his office was around the corner and he was leaving to fetch some supplies. He never returned so a resourceful policeman whistled up a carriage to remove Sir Bartholomew to hospital. He was dead before he arrived, unfortunately." 

Lina and Rhiannon exchanged another glance. This time, Benjamin caught the furtive signal. 

"Do you two know something about all this?," he asked peevishly. 

"No, nothing at all," Rhiannon said hastily. "Only what we've read." 

"Hmph." Benjamin eyed the two women suspiciously. "I suspect you know more than you're admitting, but I'll let it pass. Just remember your old friend Bennie if you care to unburden yourself someday." 

After giving Rhiannon a hug and bidding Lady Evangeline good-bye, the young gentleman took his leave. 

Once he had gone, Rhiannon gulped and asked, "What do we do now, love?" 

Lina shook her head, emerald eyes glazed. "Nothing." 

"Nothing!" At Lina's warning growl, Rhiannon lowered her voice. "But Mycroft... didn't he... I mean, he was the only... well, surely you don't think Moon's death is an accident, do you?" 

The peer shook her head. "There are some dark passages that even I hesitate to explore," she answered. 

Rhiannon looked at the painting, The Changeling's Moon, hanging in a place of pride in the study... 

Remembered the lives that had been taken and ruined because of one man's pride and another's greed... 

And shivered. 

"Lina? If he did... if he somehow ordered it to be done..." 

"If Bartholomew Moon's death is not an accident, then let us call it an act of providence. The wheels of justice have ground slowly in this case, but in the end, I believe that the changeling received precisely what he deserved." 

The two women quietly contemplated the implications of their suspicions. 

And in a small room of the Diogenes Club, the most powerful and secretive of Her Majesty's servants - the brilliant man who was not above the law but was the law incarnate - marked a file with a crimson stamp - "Secret!" - and placed it carefully in an iron clad safe, tucking the little brass key into the pocket of his bulging waistcoat. 

(*Author's Note: See Black by Gaslight for the full story.)

<~~~~~ Return to the Library

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The Alabaster Hand by Nene Adams ©2000 - All rights reserved
A Gaslight Series Halloween Special

Yet Ill not shed her blood, 
Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow,
And smooth as monumental alabaster. 
Yet she must die, else shell betray more men. 
Put out the light, and then put out the light.
-----William Shakespeare, Othello

It was pitch dark in the drawing room. The gaslight had been turned completely off, and despite an October chill in the air, the fire had not been lit that evening. Heavy brocade curtains at the windows ensured no thread of silvery moonlight could enter to shatter the suffocating midnight atmosphere. A reverent, tomb-like silence prevailed, save for the whispery breaths of the twelve guests and their two hostesses.

"As all of you know, I'm an enthusiastic collector of Egyptian antiquities, although some may prefer the term 'rabid.'" Countess Agatha Orosz said, her voice almost shocking in the absolute darkness. She was American, and the wealthy widow of a Hungarian nobleman. This Halloween soiree was being held in her rented West End home.

A few nervous chuckles followed her remark.

She continued, "The ancient Egyptians were skillful practitioners of magic - some good, some reaching back to the most heinous evil known to man. They called upon demons of malice and murder in order to protect the graves of their god-kings. Those who desecrate the sacred burial places of the dead are cursed, for death will follow them on swift wings, and the righteous sword will pierce any mortal who dares lay hands on a pharaoh's treasure."

Agatha paused, and a beam of light shot from the dark lantern in her hand, illuminating a life-sized, alabaster statue of the god Anubis - the Egyptian protector of the underworld. Indrawn gasps of surprise and appreciation ran 'round the room.

On its mottled marble plinth, the stone statue glowed as if lit from within. The alabaster was creamy ivory, dappled with with golden yellow veins, and masterfully carved. It depicted a well muscled man's body with a jackal's head, who wore a pleated kilt; one hand held an ankh - symbol of eternal life - and the other was extended outward, palm up, fingers slightly curled. Eyes of jet, outlined with carnelian and lapis, provided the only splashes of color.

"This statue has an interesting provenance," Agatha said, raising her voice slightly above the murmurs from her guests. "It was first acquired from the tomb of a priestess, Isetnefret, by Lord Gregory Symmonds-Wollcroft in 1887. He smuggled it out of Egypt, despite the strong curse attached to the object, and brought it back to England. Three months later, he was found dead in his garden, throat swollen, the marks of fingers standing out livid against his throat. Despite the mysterious circumstances, a coroner's inquest brought forth a verdict of 'death by misadventure.' The Lord's son, Harry, immediately sold this alabaster Anubis to another collector."

Agatha closed the sliding door on the lantern and the light went out immediately, plunging the room into complete darkness once again. "The new owner, Mister George Hamilton, fell down the stairs, breaking both arms and a leg. He claimed to have felt stony, inflexible fingers fastening themselves around his ankle before pulling him off balance. He gave Anubis to a former mistress, Jane Brownfield, who later disappeared without a trace, leaving all her belongings behind. Her landlord sold the statue for a princely sum to Sir Albert Roberts, who had screaming nightmares for several months. All his terrible dreams centered around being suffocated by an alabaster hand.

"I purchased this beautiful but cursed statue from Sir Albert just one week ago. Since that time, I have suffered from nervous exhaustion, night sweats, and a continual sensation of foreboding. I have had difficulty in catching my breath from time to time, and I swear that it is then that I feel the ghostly retribution of Anubis reaching from beyond the underworld to fasten tightly around my throat and..."

Agatha broke off with a choked cry and screamed, "Here it is! O God! The alabaster hand has come to kill us all!"

There were more screams of sheer terror as a dimly glowing, disembodied hand loomed out of the blackness. Guests trampled one another, men and women reduced to primal terror in their desperation to get away. Hysterical sobbing, shouts and blood-curdling yells were accompanied by the smashing of glass and furniture. The shining hand swooped to and fro, fingers clutching blindly, a blurred trail of moldy green motes trailing behind like a veil.

In the midst of the chaos, someone lit a match.

The golden light revealed a beautiful woman's strong features, her inky hair twisted into a pair of beribboned braids. The match was held up in two gloved fingers, and her lips were pursed into a wry smile. Quirking an eyebrow, she drawled, "Really, Aggie. I would have thought such a childish prank entirely beneath someone of your mature years."

Agatha sheepishly flourished a papier-mâché hand, coated in luminous paint. The other guests stared, panting hard, women fanning themselves, the men straightening their ties and smoothing back disheveled, brillantined locks.

"I thought it was rather a good Halloween joke, Lina" the Countess confessed with a grin.

Lady Evangeline St. Claire shook her head, then used the match to light a nearby candle. The single bobbing, flickering flame dispelled much of the shadows, and turned the chamber of imagined horrors into a prettily appointed drawing room once again.

"I suggest you ring for a servant to dispense medicinal brandy and soda," Lina advised while Agatha turned up the gaslight and dropped the papier-mâché hand onto a table. "Even someone of stoic fortitude might have been frightened into fits by that story of yours."

"My goodness, I feel rather faint!" exclaimed Hyacinth DuRayne, a blowzy actress dressed in a sequined, eau-de-Nil mermaid costume.

Bram Stoker, a heavyset Irishman with a bristling beard, rumbled, "Whiskey for me, if you please." He glared around the room in a belligerent manner, as if daring any man to call his previous behavior into question. The manager of the prestigious Lyceum Theatre, he had come to the Countess' party wearing a pirate's costume, complete right down to eyepatch and a tattered, stuffed parrot fastened onto one shoulder of his satin frockcoat.

Lina shook out the skirts of her gypsy gown; gold coins and silver bells sewn onto the fluttering silk rags jangled pleasingly. "I believe I shall join you in that request, Mister Stoker."

Most of the party guests had been crowded together towards the middle of the room. As servants entered, some bearing trays, others with brooms to clean up the mess of broken champagne glasses and shattered ornaments, they wandered over to Agatha in twos and threes, to congratulate her on a wonderfully frightening experience - whatever their true feelings on the subject.

Lina glanced around, seeking Rhiannon, who had disappeared from her side during the excitement. She saw her partner, also dressed in silken gypsy rags, kneeling beside a prostrate figure near the Anubis statue.

"Ah, has one of the more delicate ladies succumbed to Aggie's hand of horror and fainted?" she asked, hurrying over. It was clear to her that, in all the confusion, no one had yet noticed the unconscious woman's plight. "It is terribly good of you, my dear, to offer aid and comfort. I believe I have a small bottle of cologne in my reticule, if you wish to bathe the poor child's temples. Perhaps a small glass of brandy might help?"

"It's a bit late for that," Rhiannon said bleakly. Looking up at Lina, her turquoise eyes reflected sadness, shock and a trace of anger. "It's a bit late for anything."

Lina exclaimed, "My dear, do you mean to suggest this woman is dead?"

At this cry, the buzz of conversation in the room died immediately to a hush. Agatha dropped her glass and clapped both hands to her mouth, trembling. Rhiannon nodded.

Lina knelt down to get a better look at the victim. She had a head of wild, tawny blonde hair that spread out around her shoulders like a lioness' mane, and eyes the color of molten amber that stared upwards, unblinking. She was lean and lithe, and wore a leopard skin robe that revealed quite a bit of her pale, blue-veined skin. The most notable feature was her fingernails; they were long, manicured into hooked points, and tinted with henna. Her name was Tatiana - and she was Agatha's lover.

Bram Stoker coughed. "A weak heart, no doubt." 

Ignoring the Irishman, Rhiannon said to her partner, "That's not the worst." Gently, she turned the woman's head to one side. Clearly visible on the smooth, white column of Tatiana's throat were livid fingermarks. "She's been strangled."

Agatha let out a long, drawn-out wail and collapsed.

On the carpet near the murder victim, crouched like a malevolent albino spider, lay the broken-off alabaster hand of Anubis.

"Tatiana was Russian, a courtesan from age fourteen. A man's plaything. So beautiful, so untamed, like a panther. My God!" Agatha said in a small, tired voice. Her gray-tinged chestnut hair had come down from its fastenings and hung limply to the waist of her red, white and blue gown, a la mode Rèvolution. "Who would do such a thing?"

"I do not yet know the answer to your questions," Lina said, leaning forward and putting a hand on the Countess' shoulder, "but I assure you, I shall not rest until I do."

Agatha wrung her hands together, tangling her fingers in the exaggerated spill of lace from each cuff. "Someone must have broken in, a violent stranger..."

"Nonsense." Lina patted the distraught woman's arm. She said over her shoulder to Rhiannon, "My dear, would you pour the Countess a measure of whiskey? Thank you. Take this, Aggie, and try to calm your nerves."

She continued, "Now then... the room was plunged into utter darkness. Had anyone opened the connecting door to the parlor - which was the only door to and from the drawing room - we would have noticed the light. And the same applies to the windows, I fear. It is a fine, full moon, and had the curtains been drawn the slightest apart, we would have been alerted immediately. No, there is only one explanation." She frowned. "Someone in that room killed Tatiana." 

"Impossible!" Agatha gurgled through a mouthful of whiskey. "Do you mean to accuse Mister Stoker? Or Charlotte Trelawney, who paints portraits of the noble families throughout Europe? Are you going to point your finger at Jefferson Hope, my very good friend who owns a good percentage of the railway lines in North America? Or perhaps his wife, Beatrix? Nonsense yourself, Lady St. Claire. Next you'll be telling me that Oscar Wilde was involved, or that made-up tale about the cursed statue is true. It isn't, you know. A work of pure fiction." 

"I know it was a tale, and I am not concerned with the reputations, social importance or wealth of your guests, Aggie." Lina leaned back, folding her arms and sighing. "A woman - who was your lover, might I add - has been obviously murdered. I still think we should call the police." 

"No! Absolutely not!" Agatha ran a shaking hand over her face. "I cannot expose my guests to such a scandal. You know that I'm not entirely welcome in England. My lifestyle does not endear me to your peerage. Tatiana and I only came here because of Algernon Brown's auction. I knew he had some fine antiquities and couldn't resist the opportunity to add to my collection. Otherwise, we'd have never left Paris - we preferred our home there and haven't been to England in several years. The party tonight was Tatiana's idea - she was so easily bored and wanted company. We've had to be very much stay-at-homes since we arrived. Frankly, I don't know how you and Rhiannon get along here. People can be quite hostile." 

"I have something of a reputation for not tolerating fools gladly," Lina replied with a slight smile. "Now, Rhiannon and I were invited here partially because of our friendship with Dr. Angelica Forbes," Lina said. "You support Prickles' digs, I believe. The other guests, I do not know personally." 

In an aside, she murmured to Rhiannon, "I think some note-taking might be in order, if you feel up to the task."

Rhiannon reached into the special pocket of her costume gown for the miniature silver notebook and automatic pencil which had been a gift. She settled down on a nearby ottoman and nodded, pencil poised.

Agatha took a gulp of whiskey. "Well... I issued invitations to those whom I felt might accept, for one reason or another. Ophelia Brandcourt, the suffragette, came because she wants me to donate money to her pet cause of birth control. Maud McIntyre and her husband, William, are also Americans, also collectors of antiquities, and are good friends of my father - who owns a large percentage of their debt papers. Miss Hyacinth DuRayne is an actress; Tatiana saw her play in Paris and thought she might be amusing. Bram Stoker came on behalf of his employer; the owner of the Lyceum Theatre wants to renovate the building in the fashionable Egyptian mode, and hoped I'd be prepared to open my pocketbook and pay for the expenses."

"What about Sir Edward Caroll?" Rhiannon asked, scribbling madly. "You remember, Lina? The gentleman who smokes those foul little cigars?" 

"Oh, yes. The hairy-chested adventurer swaggering about in an open-shirted safari kit. I keep expecting to see porters and gun boys hovering at his manly heels," Lina snorted. "I suppose he desires you to bankroll his next expedition, Aggie?" 

"Of course." Agatha held out her glass for more whiskey. "He's been pestering me by letter for eighteen months at least, begging to know when and where we might meet, but Tatiana and I were doing a world tour. I thought now was as good a time as any to make the great man's acquaintance. As for Jefferson Hope, he wants me to contribute money to his political aspirations in America. In fact, the only people here tonight who don't want something from me are you, Rhiannon, and dear Oscar." 

"Oscar Wilde." Lina tapped her chin with a gloved finger. "I didn't know you were at all friendly with the chap."

"I simply adore his writings. He's a genius, in my opinion. And entirely sympathetic with my... preferences. He himself ascribes to 'the love that dare not speak its name.'"

"Yes, but very, very discreetly."

Rhiannon looked up. "I read his novelisation in Lippencott's Magazine, The Portrait of Dorian Gray. It gave me nightmares."

"My dear, you will insist on reading those Gothic romances after heavy meal," Lina teased. "I would have indigestion as well if I curled up with The Castle of Otrano or some of Sheridan LeFanu's phantasms after consuming an entire pheasant mandarin." 

Agatha cried suddenly, "My God! I can't believe Tatiana's dead!" 

"Did you love her?" Lina asked gently.

"What sort of a question is that?" The Countess replied indignantly. Her eyes were caught and held by Lina's steady stare, and she deflated with a heavy sigh. "All right. We weren't in love, not as such. Tatiana was beautiful, so exotic, and having her near me was like living with some wild, exotic cat. She was used to being kept by wealthy men - an exchange of services, so to speak. I kept her in comfort and style, indulged her with furs, jewels, holidays... whatever she wanted. Tatiana was not a... well, she was what you might call a man's woman. She was passionate in bed, but it was a calculating passion. At her core, she was cold as ice. I gave her what she wanted, and she gave me what I wanted. It was as simple as that."

"These things are rarely simple, Aggie." 

"True." Agatha drank more whiskey, tilting her wrist back with the consummate professionalism of a devout drinker. "She was unfaithful to me and took male lovers from time to time, but she was discreet. I, too, strayed occasionally to other women. I knew the moment Tatiana found someone richer and more indulgent than I was - whether male or female -she would leave me flat. It was an unspoken arrangement. I am, of course, extremely shocked at her death - shocked and saddened by the loss of someone so vibrant and free - but do not expect me to mourn excessively." 

"How sad," Rhiannon murmured.

"What you and Lina have together is extremely rare between men and woman," Agatha said cynically, "much less between two tribades. After my husband died, and my father no longer controlled my fortune, I have drifted from relationship to relationship. I wanted love, but I settled for physical satisfaction. Such is the way of the world."

"I would not agree with your assessment, Aggie, but perhaps my viewpoint is somewhat skewed." Lina took the empty glass from the Countess' hand. 

"I want her killer caught," Agatha said. "Tatiana was calculating, frustrating, irritating and a bitch at times, but I was fond of her, in my own way. She didn't deserve to die." 

"I will do everything in my power; however, you and I much reach an understanding." Lina's emerald eyes glinted. "I must be given a free hand here. I will tolerate no interference in my investigation. Furthermore, should the killer be identified, I insist that the police be informed. At any rate, if I am unable to catch the murderer before the morning, you will have to call the police into it, despite your reluctance. Are we agreed?"

"You drive a hard bargain, but yes. I agree."

"Excellent." Lina stood, and her colorful skirts chimed as she walked to the door of the parlor. "I believe the other guests have been given temporary lodging in the dining room. I shall want to see them when I am through."

Agatha peered up at the tall woman. "Through with what?"

"Examining the body." Lina turned to Rhiannon. "Will you accompany me, my dear?"

Rhiannon snapped her notecase closed and thrust it back into her pocket. "Naturally." She got up from the ottoman and held out a hand to the seated Countess. "I'm very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Orosz. I didn't know Tatiana, but you're right. No one deserves to die."

Tatiana's body had been left in situ in the drawing room, quickly covered by a knitted afghan before guests and servants had fled. Lina and Rhiannon went inside, closing the door after them. Broken slivers of glass crunched underfoot, for the Countess' household staff refused to clean a chamber containing both a dead body and a cursed statue with apparently murderous intentions.

"Superstitious nonsense!" Lina sniffed. The gaslight had been turned up to its highest setting, flooding the place with harsh, actinic light. It picked out the iridescent highlights of the peacock feathers sewn onto the bodice of her costume, and made the jet beads on her gloves glitter like black opals. "As if a statue can actually come to life. Bah!"

"You can't blame them for believing just a little," Rhiannon said, fiddling with the wide gold bracelets she wore on each wrist. Unlike everyone else - and against the law of fashion - she had chosen not to wear gloves. Her bracelets hid the silvery scars of her suicide attempt a year ago. "The Countess' story was quite... effective."

"Horribly overdone is how I should put it. However, that is neither here nor there. Help me remove this covering, my dear, and we shall see what can be discovered."

The two women knelt down on either side of the murder victim. Tatiana's body was already growing stiff, and although there hadn't been enough time for serious decomposition to set in, Rhiannon imagined she could already detect traces of the sweet, sickly scent of death in the air. 

Tatiana lay on her back, head towards the statue. The billowing skirt of her leopard skin robe was rucked up around her thighs; one hand was curled against her cheek, the other flung out to her side. The broken piece of statuary lay near her left. 

Lina examined the neck injuries first. "Yes, these marks are quite distinct. I can make out a definite finger marks on the front, deep into the tissue. She was caught from behind in a powerful grip and never had a chance to make a sound."

"It must have happened in the dark. Could she have been strangled so quickly?" Rhiannon fought down a feeling of nausea; since meeting the beautiful detective and being exposed to violent death, she no longer fainted in the presence of dead bodies.

"I suppose... here, what is this?" Lina gently rocked Tatiana's head from side to side and probed the back of her neck. "Ah. Strangulation was not the cause of death, my dear. Her neck has been broken rather neatly." 

Rhiannon lifted Tatiana's hand. "Looks like some flecks of blood on the back. Has she been cut anywhere?" 

Lina glanced up. "I doubt it. You will notice that Anubis' hand was attached to the arm by an internal rod - a common sculptor's device. The iron staple has rotted over time. What you see are flakes of rust." 

"What about these bruises on her thighs?" The marks were yellowing and nearly healed. 

"Observe Tatiana's skin - the veins are clearly visible beneath the surface. Very delicate and pale; I imagine she bruised easily. Well, let us cover the poor creature again. Hmmm... what is this?" 

"What?" 

"It seems one of her earrings is missing." Lina leaned down and pushed a mass of Tatiana's tawny hair to one side. "Yes, ripped cleanly through the lobe." 

The woman had been wearing heavy gold doorknocker earrings, encrusted with amber and rubies, that brushed her shoulders. Rhiannon looked carefully around. "I don't see it." 

"It could have been pulled off in the struggle. Or perhaps caught on the murderer's clothing. The wound has not bled much, which may indicate it was torn free after the murder." 

"And it could have been found on the floor by a servant, who took it," Rhiannon pointed out. "After all, it was quite valuable, and you know what low wages most serving persons earn. Who would miss a dead woman's bauble?"

"We shall have to conduct a search." After putting the afghan back over the body, Lina spent a few moments crawling on the floor, her face close to the carpet. Finally, she sat back on her heels. "With all the mad rush created by Aggie's prank, any faint footmarks have been well-nigh obliterated. I thought as much. We shall get nothing further here, my dear. Let us go to the dining room and speak to our fellow guests."

"Do you have any suspects?" Rhiannon offered a hand and helped the taller woman get up.

"At this stage, I suspect everyone."

"Including Agatha?"

"Perhaps." Lina dusted off her skirts. "Although I believe that had she moved from her position near the fireplace, we would have noticed the change of direction. Unless she has added the talent of music hall ventriloquism to her repertoire."

"She doesn't strike me as the type."

"Nor I. Come, my wild Welsh gypsy love. Let us beard these lions in their den. If they prove recalcitrant and refuse to tell the truth, you could always threaten them with a hideous curse," Lina said lightheartedly. 

Rhiannon shivered. "I think we've had enough curses for one night." She couldn't help looking at the alabaster hand that still lay, palm up, on the floor.

Lina sobered. "You are correct, as always."

Her gaze traveled to the hand of Anubis as well.

"What the Devil are we still doing here?" Bram Stoker demanded. "Shouldn't the police have arrived by now?"

"The police have not yet been notified," Lina replied coolly. She was perched in the big, throne-like chair at the head of the long mahogany table, with Rhiannon on her right. "For now, I have been authorized by Countess Orosz to question all of you in connection with the death of Tatiana."

"It was that horrible hand," Hyacinth DuRayne whispered. The lamp soot she used to darken her lashes had run in streaks down her rouged cheeks. "It was the curse of Priestess Isis-whatever. We've got to get out of here before it kills us all!" Her voice rose to a squeak.

"Don't be such a silly gel!" Ophelia Brandcourt remonstrated. The stout, somewhat mannish looking woman was dressed in an ill-fitting tuxedo, a pince-nez perched in the middle of her broad nose. "Aggie's already explained that the story was a hoax, a fairy tale. There's no such thing as Egyptian ghosts from beyond the grave who go about murderin' decent folks. A man killed poor Tatiana... count on it!" She gave the male members of the party a hostile glare.

"Would that be before or after you finished stuffing the girl's pockets with pamphlets on birth control and free love?" Charlotte Trelawney asked. "Before or after she laughed in your face and called you a raddled old tart? I heard her, you know, Miss Brandcourt. Maybe you had something to do with it."

"Quite so. Who's to say it was a man at all?" Sir Edward Carrol flicked some ash from the end of his vile smelling cigar and squared his shoulders, safari hat tilted rakishly over one eye. "Beggin' your pardon, ladies, but some of you - like Miss Brandcourt - have got quite an astonishin' grip."

"What are you insinuating?" Ophelia hissed, swelling like a viper ready to strike. "How dare you!"

"Enough!" Lina commanded, holding up a hand. "Mutual recriminations will get us nowhere."

"But flattery will get you everywhere," Oscar Wilde muttered, drooping like a funeral lily behind an aspidistra in the corner.

"And that will be quite enough from you as well, Mister Wilde," Lina said tartly. "Now then... let us at least be civilized. Have any of you met Tatiana before?"

The guests glanced at one another. Finally, Maud McIntyre spoke. She was a very fat woman, tightly laced into an ugly black Puritan gown, a shapeless gauze cap tied beneath her double chin. 

"My husband and I only knew of her by reputation." The way she spoke the word made it sound like an obscenity. "We were asked by the Countess' father, Jeremiah, to look in on Agatha, since we were also in London attending the Brown sale. Frankly, we do not approve of this type of soiree - strong drink is the Devil's work - but for the sake of her father, we decided to accept the invitation." 

William McIntyre nodded meekly. He, too, was wearing Puritan garb, and the heavily starched collar cut into his jowls. "Yes. Tatiana seemed like a nice girl..." 

"William! Do not interrupt!" Maud exclaimed, pinching his arm. 

He flinched and said nothing.

Lina frowned. "Have you anything else of importance to add, Mrs. McIntyre? No? Then let us proceed." Ignoring Maud's flush, she continued, "Mister Hope, I believe you accepted Aggie's invitation because her father owns a considerable amount of your debt papers." 

"I never discuss business with strangers," Hope said, gray eyes flashing with muted anger. "However, that is far from the entire truth. We knew Agatha's family back in San Francisco. So sure... we were in London visiting an old aunt from my wife's side of the family and heard Agatha was in town. We decided to look her up, that's all. As far as Tatiana is concerned, we met her only today." 

He and his wife were dressed in matching cowboy outfits, complete with buckskin jackets, fringed shirts, and tooled leather boots. Beatrix Hope, a slim blonde beauty, nodded in agreement and took a quick sip of brandy.

"Very well." Lina scanned the room. "Does anyone have anything else to say?" 

The artist, Charlotte, pulled a shawl closer about her shoulders. She had come to the party dressed as Ariel; the multiple layers of thin, spangled gauze that made up her dress were far from warm. A diamante diadem was precariously perched on her auburn curls and twinkled in the gaslight. 

"I did meet Tatiana about three years ago," Charlotte offered. "It was at a ball given in London, at the Russian embassy. I was there because I had recently completed a portrait of Tamislav, the ambassador. Something terrible happened that night and a man died because of it." 

"I heard about that!" Bram Stoker cried. He shook his head as a servant offered the whisky decanter. "I believe it was Oscar who told me. The details have escaped my recollection, but wasn't there some sort of scandal involved?"

"Oh, scandal!" Ophelia snorted. "No one loves gossip as much as our precious Mister Wilde." 

"Will you be quiet!" Agatha said. "We don't have time to tear each other to pieces. The woman who was my lover - sorry if I offend, Maud - has been murdered. I want to know who diid it and why. Oscar, dear, do you know anything about this? I don't recall Tatiana ever mentioning this embassy ball to me." 

Wilde peeled himself away from his corner. He was very tall and thickset, with heavy lidded eyes and a pouting expression, but despite his height and bulk, he somehow managed to appear delicate. He wore a paisley smoking jacket, dark pants and a tasseled fez - the perfect costume for a self-proclaimed dilettante. Carpet slippers on his feet made for a finishing touch. 

The author and playwright struck a pose near Lina. "Why, I do believe that my talent for collecting other people's pasts has come back to haunt me."

"Don't try to be overly clever," Stoker rumbled. "Just tell the story."

"After second hand goods again?" A slight smile touched Wilde's lips. "Some things never change."

Stoker came halfway out of his chair, then settled back down again at a steely glance from Lina. He knew Wilde was needling him because his beloved wife, Florence, was the man's former innamorata.

"The scandal, Mister Wilde?" Lina asked.

"Very well. I love you dearly, Agatha, but you do have the most appalling habit of taking up with the most appalling people." Wilde leaned his hip against an empty chair and folded his arms across his chest. "Three years ago, our recently lamented Tatiana - God rest her soul - was the mistress of Duke Vladimir Abakumov. The Duke was a highly placed attaché in attendance upon the Russian ambassador. At this ball which Miss Trelawney has so graciously brought to our attention, certain papers of a most delicate and diplomatic nature were stolen from the Duke's bedroom. He committed suicide shortly thereafter, in expiation for the sin of being responsible. And that, children, is the end of Uncle Oscar's bedtime story." 

"Yes, that's what I understood," Charlotte said. "Afterward, Tatiana was sent back to Russia under guard. I believe she was suspected of the theft, but no evidence could be found and she was released. Agatha, she never said anything about it to you?" 

"No. Not one word." The Countess signaled the footman to serve tea and coffee. "Her past was a mystery to me."

Ophelia sighed. "Poor, misguided creature. Brought low by the cruel, carnal, animal nature of man."

"Some of us like men," Charlotte said. She and the suffragette did not get along at all. Ophelia had once called her the portraitist whore licking the feet of a domineering regime, while she thought the other woman's outspoken stance on free love was too vulgar for words.

"Yes, and some of us a bit too well," Ophelia retorted, sneering at Wilde, who fluttered his lashes at her and said, "Women have a wonderful instinct about things. They can discover anything except the obvious."

"Mister Stoker," Lina interrupted impatiently, "or Mister Wilde, do either of you know any more about Tatiana?"

Wilde shook his head. 

Bram Stoker stroked his beard and reached into the pocket of his pirate's frock coat, pulling out a silver-chased cigarette case. He spent a few moments tapping a Turkish cigarette against the front of the case, then reached across the table towards an elaborate centerpiece of carved jack o' lanterns, dried leaves, pine branches and candles in Etruscan bronze holders. The motley parrot on his shoulder shed feathers with every movement, making Beatrix Hope sneeze. 

Stoker pulled one of the candles towards him, lighted his cigarette, exhaled a cloud of smoke, and cleared his throat. "I am a gentleman, and a gentleman should never discomfit a lady. However, the circumstances are unusual enough to warrant extraordinary measures. If you want to know more about Tatiana, Lady St. Claire, I suggest you look to Miss DuRayne. Gossip suggests that she may have had the best reason for wanting the woman dead." 

Hyacinth reared up, giving the theater manager a scandalized glare. "Oh! Mister Stoker! And here I thought you were a nice man!"

"Miss DuRayne, it will all come out eventually. At the moment, we are not pointing fingers of blame; we simply wish to get as well-rounded a picture as possible," Lina said.

"All right!" Hyacinth pouted, flinging herself back into her seat. She snatched an onyx cigarette holder out of her reticule and gestured pointedly at Stoker. "Give me a ciggie, will you? Thanks. And pass the candle." She inhaled deeply, spirals of gray smoke swirling around her heavily painted face. "Well, I was at that ball myself three years ago. With Lord George Feniway. Dear Georgie... I do miss him so..."

Her eyes took on a faraway expression. Lina coughed and the actress frowned, flicking ash across the polished surface of the dining table. "Don't get your knickers in a twist," Hyacinth snapped, her lower class roots showing. "I'm getting to the good part. Anyway, this Tatiana was there with a Russian Duke fellow. She was practically falling out of her dress, and everytime the Duke left her alone, there'd be dozens of blokes panting around her, tongues to their knees, wallets on their sleeves."

"Lord George was one of them, I presume?" Lina asked.

"Yes! That slut!" Hyacinth ground out her half-smoked cigarette on the table, making Agatha wince. "She could'a had anybody there, but she hadda pick my Georgie! He dropped me cold, said I could take a cab home. Didn't even offer fare! I lost my nice little apartment cause'a that Russian witch! Oh, she got hers all right. Dukie-boy shot 'isself and she got took back to Moscow. But Georgie, he wouldn't have nuffin' more to do with me after that."

Rhiannon asked, "Was Lord George your protector?" 

"Inna way. It ain't easy for a girl to get ahead these days. She needs a strong man to help her out, pay some bills, give 'spensive presents." Hyacinth pursed her lips and tilted her head. Strands of fake seaweed were mixed with her hennaed locks. "I don't need old Georgie anymore. I gotta new fellow who's gonna give me everythin' I need." Her triumphant gaze traveled around the table. "He'd better, if he knows what's good for him." 

"My dear gel, you most definitely do not need to believe any of this patriarchal male nonsense!" Ophelia said, adjusting her pince-nez. "You can get along quite well in this world alone." 

"Maybe that's true for some of us," Hyacinth replied tartly. "But that ain't here nor there. You wanted to know about the ball and I told you, so I said all I'm gonna say." 

"If you detested Tatiana so much, why did you accept the Countess' invitation?" Rhiannon asked.

"I heard Mister Bram Stoker was goin' to be here. He's manager of the Lyceum, ain't he?" Hyacinth blew a cloud of smoke towards the petite red-head. "I thought if I was nice to him, he might find me a part in his next production. I figured the Russian slut owed me one."

Stoker was appalled. "Madame, I should no more cast you in my theater than I would a chattering baboon. From what I've heard, your talents are more fit to vulgar music hall comedies than legitimate productions."

"I don't needs you no more, do I?" the actress sneered. "Anyways, it were just a thought."

"Does this new protector of yours have anything to do with the case in hand?" Lina asked sharply. 

Hyacinth replied sharply, "No. He don't. As if I'd let that hussy get her claws into a man of mine again!" 

Sir Edward Caroll pushed his safari hat back. His craggy, sun scorched face was ornamented by a thick, black mustache with waxed tips. "Quite right, Miss DuRayne. I'm sure a clever girl like you will always get her due. Reminds me of the time in India when I met a woman who... but that's neither here nor there. Beg pardon for rattlin' on. By Jove, I'd no idea about any of this sordid business. Makes me bloody glad - beg pardon, ladies - that I've been away." 

"Where have you been for the past three years, Sir Edward?" Rhiannon busily jotted a few lines in her notebook. 

"Madagascar, Australia, the Amazon, Africa, India, bit of the Orient. Hunted white bears in Siberia as well. Brought back some jolly good furs. Was down the Congo the last six months, shootin' elephants and guidin' Lord Kenworth's safari. Was hopin' dear old Agatha'd agree to bankroll an expedition to the Sudan." He scratched idly, short nails rasping the thick tufts of hair that sprang from his shirt. 

"Does anyone else have anything to add?" Lina stood up and laid her hands flat on the table. "Right. I would now like to ask the gentleman to please empty their pockets, and ladies, your reticules."

"Now, wait one moment!" Stoker exploded. "By what authority do you dare search our persons and belongings!"

"By my authority," Agatha said, rising also. "This is my home, and it is my friend who has been murdered. For now, I have withheld my permission to summon the police, but if you do not feel like cooperating with Lady St. Claire's very reasonable request, and prefer the attention of the authorities, I assure you that I will send a message immediately." 

"Settle down, Bram," Wilde said, patting the indignant man on his shoulder. "We don't know the lady's intentions, but I have heard she is a tolerably able investigator. Runs about with that Sherlock Holmes, who's damnably smart if you ask me. I, for one, have no trouble acceding to her request, for I believe she means to eliminate the suspect from the innocent.." He pulled a few items from the pockets of his paisley jacket - a broken cigarette holder, a small flask, a crumpled handkerchief, some mixed coins, and a few flakes of tobacco. 

"Thank you, Oscar," Agatha said in relief. "Mister Stoker?" 

"Very well. Wilde's silver-tongued persuasion has convinced me it is for the best." Stoker also laid the contents of his pockets on the table. "Oscar, you're too kind." 

Wilde shrugged. "One can always be kind to people about whom one cares nothing."

"And too bloody clever by half!" Stoker added.

Lina smiled. "You have set a fine example, gentlemen. Now for the rest..." 

One by one, the guests emptied their pockets and reticules. Lina observed the array of miscellany that littered the table. She didn't think that the murderer would be so careless as to retain the missing gold earring, but one never knew. 

"Thank you all," she finally said. "You have been most cooperative." There was no trace of Tatiana's earring. 

Agatha slumped slightly. "This whole ordeal has been quite a strain on everyone's nerves. With your permission, Lina, I would suggest we all repair upstairs to refresh ourselves for an hour. I will instruct the cook to prepare trays of light snacks to be brought to your rooms."

"Yes, I have a feeling this is going to be a long night," Lina replied. "By all means, Aggie. An excellent suggestion."

Maud McIntyre sniffed. "I would prefer to go to our hotel." 

"No one is leaving this house until morning," Lina said firmly. 

"Surely you aren't insinuating that my husband and I are involved?"

"As I have said before, Mrs. McIntyre, no one is being accused... yet." Lina put a hand on Rhiannon's shoulder. "My dear, I shall want to see your notes as soon as possible. Aggie, will you kindly instruct your butler and have the footmen escort each guest to their room? We shall regroup here in one hour."

Sir Edward threw her a mock salute. "First time I've ever taken orders from one of the fairer sex," he remarked, shifting his foul cigar from one side of his mouth to the other.

"There is a first time for everything," Jefferson Hope said darkly, grasping his wife's hand in a white-knuckled grip.

The tension in the room was thick as London fog, and just as impenetrable.

Rhiannon allowed herself to be led away by Lina, wondering which of the people around that table was a cold blooded murderer.

Upstairs in a lilac floral bedroom, Lina poured water out of a jug into the washstand bowl and soaked an embroidered towel in the cool liquid. She wrung it out, brought it to Rhiannon, and rubbed the back of her neck with it. "Does that feel better, my dear? You were beginning to droop." 

"Oh, that's so good." Rhiannon let her shoulders relax, head falling forward. "Who do you think did it, love?" 

"I do not know 'who' yet." Lina sat down behind the smaller woman. "Nor do I know 'why.' I confess that it is my feeling - and nothing more - that leads me to believe that the events of three years ago may have some bearing on the murder of Tatiana tonight." 

"I feel the same way." Still enjoying the soothing, cool caress on her neck, Rhiannon consulted her small notebook. "Well, if that's the case, then Hyacinth DuRayne seems like our most likely suspect." 

"Not necessarily. By her own admission, Charlotte Trelawney also attended the Russian embassy affair. Bram Stoker and Oscar Wilde certainly knew about it, although I doubt they were directly involved." With her free hand, Lina reached under the lace mantilla that covered Rhiannon's hair and stroked it gently. "I agree that Miss DuRayne's behavior is somewhat suspect." 

"Hyacinth doesn't strike me as strong enough to snap a woman's neck that quickly. We must be looking for a man, which narrows down the field somewhat. I suppose you're going to let everyone continue to believe that Tatiana was strangled?" 

"Of course." Lina glanced over Rhiannon's shoulder at her little notebook. "Let me ask you, my dear, as I have every faith in your intuition: did Hyacinth's last words - some rot about finding a new protector - strike you as inappropriate in some fashion?" 

"Not exactly inappropriate." The red-head nibbled at the end of her automatic pencil. "More like... I don't know. As if she was warning someone in the room. I remember she said specifically, 'he'd better if he knows what's good for him.'" 

"It certainly sounds as if our Miss DuRayne is concealing something." 

"It is a puzzle, but I think she was warning one of the gentlemen that if they didn't pay up, she was going to expose him." 

"As a murderer? Perhaps. Although Hyacinth could not have seen anything in that blasted room, anymore than the rest of us. What the Devil is that woman hiding? I believe when we return, we had better direct our full attention to Hyacinth DuRayne and see if we can persuade her to be more forthcoming." 

Rhiannon nestled against her partner. "That's going to be difficult." 

"True. A bribe might be in order." Lina put both arms around Rhiannon and squeezed, breathing in the scent of spicy perfume. "A rather large one." 

"We can afford it." 

"We could gift her with these extravagant costumes," Lina replied, tossing the damp towel on the bed. "These coins are gold guineas, you know. I had no idea they were going to be so noisy. Every time I move, these skirts chime as if struck by a mad bellringer." 

Rhiannon chuckled. "It was your idea. I wanted to go as a witch." 

"You are enough of an enchantress, my dear," Lina said, lips grazing the other woman's ear. "Best not to let too many in on the secret of your magic charms, lest they spirit you away and keep you for themselves." 

"Oh..." 

A sudden scream made them both sit up. 

"Fire!" 

It came from the hallway. Lina sprang off the bed and ran to the door, flinging it open. A thin film of smoke was spreading up from the landing. 

Rhiannon came up and peered around the taller woman's shoulder. "We're trapped," she gasped. 

Other doors had opened, discharging men and women into the corridor. Bram Stoker had removed his frock coat. "Start tearing the sheets into strips to make ropes," he commanded. "The men can lower the women to the ground and safety." 

Beatrix Hope clutched at her throat. "My God! We're going to die!" 

Agatha leaned over the bannister. "Wilcox! Wilcox! Where is that man? Wilcox! Someone answer me!" Although she had a clear view of the black and white marble tiles of the ground floor foyer, there were no servants in sight. 

Maud McIntyre rolled her eyes to Heaven and intoned, "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, for Thou art with me..." 

Oscar Wilde was more amused than frightened. "I think that God, in creating man, somewhat overestimated His ability," he drawled. "I've not seen so much hysteria in one night since Lord Admiral Smith saw H.M.S. Pinafore for the first time and realized he was being satirized." 

"No one is to do anything yet," Lina said sternly. More smoke drifted up, making Beatrix whimper in fright. "Rhiannon, fetch the water jug from our bedroom, if you please. Mister Stoker, if you would be so kind as to take the ladies into a room and keep them there until you hear from me." 

"We must get out of this house immediately!" Stoker insisted. "Before the flames reach the second floor and engulf us!" 

"I hardly think there is any danger of that. It seems the fire is relatively small at the moment, and quite possibly easily extinguished. However, if it makes you feel better, ask Aggie to show you where she keeps the ordinary sheets. I do not believe she would appreciate the destruction of her convent-woven linens." Lina took the jug from her partner and noticed that the contents of the basin had been poured inside as well. 

"Excellently done, my dear. Now let us see to this conflagration." 

Rhiannon hefted a second jug, commenting, "I took this from another room, just in case it was needed," and followed Lina down the stairs. 

The smoke was fairly light, a pearly gray mingled with thin threads of black. Nevertheless, Rhiannon's eyes watered and she began coughing. "Do you see anything?" 

"Yes," Lina answered. "A relatively small fire. Nothing to worry about." They had reached the landing. Here, the smoke was thickest, and the subdued crackle of flames could be detected. The tall woman leaned in and poured water into the faintly glowing center of the sooty clouds. A wheezing crackle, then more hissing as Lina finished one jug, took the second from Rhiannon, and kept pouring. In moments, the fire was extinguished and the smoke began to dissipate rapidly. 

Rhiannon waved a hand in front of her face, wrinkling her nose at the acrid smell. "How on earth did a fire get started there, of all places?" 

Lina walked around the scorched, soaking wet spot on the carpet. Her eyes were a little bloodshot, and the tip of her nose streaked with ash. "It appears someone set a magazine alight and threw it over the top of the third floor rail," she said, stirring the mess with a toe. 

"A magazine?" Rhiannon frowned. She bent down and poked at the mass of charred paper. "That's not a very intelligent way to start a fire. Oh! It's The Strand." 

"It was pure chance that the carpet caught and the stairboards began to smolder. Another fifteen minutes, and we might have had a serious situation on our hands; however I do not think that was what the arsonist intended. This was meant as a distraction, nothing more." 

"I say!" Sir Edward called from the third floor. From the women's perspective, his florid face hung upside down - a ludicrous sight. "Are you ladies all right? Damned shame - beggin' your pardon - that I wasn't awakened in time to help." 

"Were you napping, Sir Edward?" Lina called. 

He flushed further. "A few spots of brandy, a heavy dinner - you know how it is. Thought a bit of a kip might be in order to settle the ol' stomach." 

"Countess, the fire is out," Rhiannon said, walking back up the stairs. "There's some minor damage, but nothing serious. More of a prank, really." 

"Thank God!" Agatha put a hand to her heart. "I feared we'd all be burned to a crisp." 

In the third floor hallway, Rhiannon surveyed the guests and realized two were missing. "Where are Ophelia Brandcourt and Hyacinth DuRayne?" 

"I... I don't know." Agatha clutched at Jefferson Hope's buckskin sleeve. "Where have all the servants gone?" 

"Do you know what rooms were assigned to them?" Rhiannon asked, moving purposely down the hall. 

"No." 

Hope grimaced and disentangled himself from Agatha's grip. His wife was sobbing quietly, comforted by Charlotte Trelawney. "I'll go downstairs and find out what the hell's going on around here." 

He left and Rhiannon began opening doors. When she got to the last one on the south side, she stiffened. "Agatha, if Lina is still on the landing, please ask her to come up immediately." 

"Why? What is it?" 

Bram Stoker went to Rhiannon. A single glance at the interior of the room was enough for him. He backed away, shaking his head. 

Agatha was on the verge of tears. "What's happened? Please, for God's sake, tell me!" 

Rhiannon's mouth was drawn into a thin, tight line. "Another murder." 

Oscar Wilde barely caught the fainting Countess before she hit the ground. 

Lina had sent Hope and Stoker to check the servant's quarters. Now, she knelt down beside the body Rhiannon had found. "Her neck is broken, just like Tatiana's." 

"That's not the only coincidence." Rhiannon pointed to the floor. 

The alabaster hand of Anubis was on the rug below the washstand, stony fingers clutching at the air. 

Ophelia Brandcourt sat on the bed and snuffled. "I came in to give her some pamphlets," the suffragette said. Her pomaded hair was disheveled, the pince-nez hung from its pin on the lapel of her tuxedo jacket. "She didn't answer my knock, but the door was unlocked." 

Lina looked up from her examination of Hyacinth DuRayne. The actress' body lay in the small space between the bed and the window, head twisted at an odd angle. "Did you see anyone else in the hall?" she asked. 

Ophelia shook her head and blew her nose on a wrinkled handkerchief. "No. I didn't see her when I came in. I thought she'd gone out, then I saw that blasted hand on the floor. When I walked to the end of the bed, I saw her... her... head..." she choked. "I couldn't move or scream or breathe. It was too horrible to comprehend." 

"I know this has been very shocking, Miss Brandcourt," Rhiannon said, sitting down beside the distraught woman. "Did not not hear the fire alarm?" 

"No." 

"Please, try to remember... do you recall seeing anything out of the ordinary? Anything at all?" 

"Other than another victim of the alabaster hand?" Ophelia blew her nose again. "Miss Moore, until tonight I would have said this notion of a cursed Egyptian statue was somethin' out of the fevered imagination of a yellow journalist. Now, however - I am beginning to believe. Poor Hyacinth, strangled! My God, we've got to get out of this house before we all fall victim to Agatha's horrid toy!" 

"Please try and stay calm," Lina admonished gently. It was clear the suffragette hadn't heard her reveal the true nature of Hyacinth's demise. "Now, where is the room you were assigned?" 

"Next door," Ophelia said. "If only I'd heard her call for help, perhaps..." 

"She wouldn't have had time to cry out. It is plain that Hyacinth knew her attacker well enough to let them in without a fuss. This room is far too small for someone to have walked in unnoticed. And the door hinges creak, which would have alerted Hyacinth to the arrival of friend or foe. No, Miss Brandcourt, you need not fear a supernatural murderer. The person who killed this woman is as human as you or I." 

"What about that?" Ophelia pointed to the hand on the rug. "Did it crawl upstairs under its own power? You two were the last people in the drawing room!" She scooted away from Rhiannon. "Maybe you took the hand! Maybe you're the ones who want us all dead!" 

Lina rolled her eyes. "A smart slap is an excellent cure for hysteria, Miss Brandcourt. Kindly calm yourself before I am forced to take appropriate action." 

Rhiannon patted the flinching Ophelia's arm. "It isn't anyone's fault that Hyacinth is dead, except the murderer's. Lina and I are doing everything we can to bring him to justice." 

"She was a good gel," Ophelia sniffed. "A bit thick, but a good soul nonetheless. I could feel it; I'm sensitive to such things." 

"While you were still in your room, did you hear anything at all through the walls? Voices, a sound, anything?" Rhiannon asked. 

"No. I'm not a ruddy eavesdropper," the suffragette answered sullenly. "I heard nothing. You say this is no one's fault, but I lay the blame for Hyacinth's death square on your shoulders, Lady St. Claire. We should have stayed together, kept watch on one another in the light. Sweet Jesus, will this night never end?" 

"You are correct," Lina sighed, covering Hyacinth's body with a blanket. "Had I not permitted the party to break up, this might not have happened." To Rhiannon, she said, "I must examine the room completely. Will you please take Ophelia downstairs to the parlor, my dear? I will join you shortly. Oh, and I shall need your notebook." 

"Of course." Rhiannon handed her partner the little notebook, coaxed Ophelia off the bed, and escorted her out into the corridor. Over her shoulder, she saw Lina getting down on all fours, her nose inches away from the carpet. Then she moved to the fireplace. 

Silently, Rhiannon echoed the suffragette's sentiment. Let dawn come soon, she thought. In the morning, the police will come and it will all be over, one way or another.

Rhiannon took a sip of sweet milky tea, holding the delicate bone china cup carefully. The parlor's overstuffed chairs, divans and sofas were all occupied by the men and women who made up Agatha's party guests. After she'd gotten Ophelia downstairs, Jefferson Hope had returned with the news that the servants had locked themselves into their quarters and refused to come out with a ghostly murderer on the loose. The butler, Wilcox, was particularly adamant, and the rest followed his lead. 

With Rhiannon's help, the Countess had made tea and coffee, accompanied by biscuits from a tin found in the pantry. Only Oscar Wilde ate the biscuits, crunching them with a relish that made Bram Stoker growl in irritation. 

Beatrix Hope sat next to her husband, shaking so hard her cup rattled in its saucer. Charlotte Trelawney stared ahead dully, crumpling a fold of her gauzy costume in her hands. William McIntyre stood behind his wife, who had taken over an entire divan, spreading out her voluminous black skirts with an air of defiance. No one questioned her right to do so; a stubborn glare from her glittering eyes made any attempt at argument distasteful. 

Sir Edward Carrol continued to puff a cigar despite the presence of ladies, blowing smoke rings absently. His cup of coffee laced with brandy lay untouched on a table next to his elbow. 

Rhiannon checked the little watch pinned to her bodice. It was nearly four o'clock in the morning; the sun would rise at around seven. Three hours to go, she thought. 

Suddenly, the door opened and Lina swept into the room, skirts jangling. Her attitude was tranquil, but two scarlet spots burned high on her cheeks. "Ladies and gentlemen," she said, "I beg your pardon for leaving you alone so long." 

"Did you find anything?" Stoker demanded, then in the next breath exploded, "By God, why won't you call the police? They're far better suited for catching murderers than a deviant socialite with pretensions of intelligence!" 

"Mister Stoker!" Agatha exclaimed. "Where are your manners, sir?" 

"Bram has only one set of manners, and they are very bad indeed," Wilde drawled, pushing his long legs out in front of him. "A touch common of him, I dare say." 

"And you stay out of this!" Stoker commanded, beard bristling. 

"Mister Stoker, I fully understand your concerns," Lina said in a cold, silky voice that Rhiannon recognized with a chill. It usually meant that someone was about to be blasted, and even the strongest men quailed before her partner's ferocious temper. "But insulting me will not prevent the identification of a murderer - if that is your aim." 

"What are you insinuating? That I'm protecting a vicious murderer?" Stoker struck his fist against his knee. "Pure nonsense!" 

The theater manager might have been oblivious to the implications of Lina's statement, but others were not. "What's all this, then?" Caroll said through a cloud of cigar smoke. "Figured it all out, have you? Is it the revenge of Anubis?" He chuckled. "'Stead of the police, hadn't we better call those Society for Psychical Research chappies to come down with their exorcism gear?" 

"It's the hand, isn't it?" Beatrix muttered. Dark rings and puffy eyelids marred her blonde beauty. "That wretched alabaster hand. We're all cursed. I knew it." 

"Shut up, Beatrix." Jefferson Hope scowled. "This isn't one of those rubbishy novels you're always reading. There aren't any such things as ghosts." 

"Mister Hope is perfectly correct," Lina said. "The murders of Tatiana and Hyacinth DuRayne were committed by a human agent - a man, a guest in this household. There is no curse, no wandering force of ancient vengeance, no disembodied hand. This is murder, pure and simple." 

The guests looked at one another, then back to Lina. 

"The truth is rarely pure and never simple," Wilde commented with raised eyebrows. 

Surprisingly, the lady smiled. "That is the most intelligent thing you have said all evening, Mister Wilde." 

"I don't believe you," Beatrix said. Coffee slopped from the cup in her trembling hand. "We've been cursed. I heard the story." 

"I made it up!" Agatha cried impatiently. "The whole history of that wretched statue is fictional. I thought it would be a good joke. I was obviously wrong." 

"Mrs. Hope - all of you - I would like you to accompany me to the drawing room," Lina said calmly. 

"Absolutely not!" Stoker stood up, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. "I have had enough of this nonsense! Agatha, I insist you summon the police at once." 

"Two woman have been cruelly murdered," Lina began, and was interrupted by William McIntyre. 

"One of the bodies is in there!" he squealed. "I'm not going back!" 

Maud pinched his thigh. "Do hush, Billy." Her eyes, like plump raisins sunk into the doughy flesh of her face, surveyed the room coldly. "Mister Stoker, even if the alarm is raised now, it will take time for the police to arrive, and they will want to know why they weren't summoned earlier - an awkward business if we have no information to soothe their wrath. I believe we should indulge Lady St. Claire for the moment. While I do not approve of certain aspects of her personal life, she seems like a smart woman and I'm inclined to give her a say." 

"Thank you, Mrs. McIntyre." Lina inclined her head graciously. "If there are no more protests, let us go at once into the drawing room." 

"For what purpose, might I ask?" Charlotte challenged. 

"To unmask a murderer." 

Even Bram Stoker subsided at this bald statement from the lady with a triumphant glitter in her emerald green eyes. 

"I n every investigation," Lina began, "one must ask certain questions - who, how, when, where and why. Once these questions have been answered, one arrives at the proper conclusion and the darkness of ignorance is illuminated." 

She stood before the fireplace, the gypsy silks of her costume glowing like jewel dust in the gaslight. "Let us first examine the case of Tatiana's death. Not everything is clear, but some details of the matter have come to light. 

"Tatiana's death was one of convenience. The killer saw his chance and took it. Circumstance afforded him the concealment of darkness and a great deal of confusion in which to work. Did he come to the party prepared to take a life? Perhaps. But whatever his previous thoughts, he was intelligent enough to realize that chance was working in his favor. After Agatha extinguished the dark lantern, he silently and swiftly approached Tatiana from behind, grabbed her throat in a two-handed grip and squeezed. She began to struggle, and he snapped her neck before lowering her to the ground." 

"She wasn't strangled?" Beatrix Hope asked, shuddering. 

"No. Tatiana's death was not caused by strangulation. Aggie, would you come here please?" Lina moved to a position in front and slightly to the right of the Anubis statue. After searching Hyacinth's room, she had come downstairs and moved the Russian woman's body from the floor to a chesterfield sofa. "I believe a small demonstration is in order. Will the rest of you please form a rough circle, in similar positions as you were earlier this evening?" 

With the Countess in front of her, Lina extended her arms and wrapped both hands around the woman's neck. "Tatiana was petite, approximately the same height as Aggie. I, on the other hand, am taller. Notice how easy it is for me to hold her at arms' length and bend her slightly backwards, bringing her toes off the floor. This makes it impossible for a panicking woman to kick backwards and spoil my grip." 

Lina squeezed a little harder. Agatha gave a nervous giggle that was immediately cut off. Her eyes were beginning to bulge, and she gasped. 

Rhiannon was a little concerned. "Maybe you'd better stop now, love." 

The dark-haired woman gave no indication that she heard. Instead, she began to throttle the Countess harder, muscles in her forearms bulging against the soft kidskin of her gloves. The guests did not intervene; they were mesmerized by horror, left gasping for air as if they, not the Countess, were being brutally strangled. 

Rhiannon's eyes went wide. "Lina! You're killing her! Stop!" 

Agatha's complexion was taking on a definite bluish caste. Tears welled up and trickled down her cheeks, wetting the thick wad of ruched lace tied about her neck like a cravat. Her graying chestnut hair came loose from its curls, pins showering the carpet between her toes. 

The Countess clawed at Lina's gloves. Her other hand flailed wildly at the air as she desperately tried to grab the attention of the person standing closest to her. Her outstretched fingers grazed the rust-stained stub of the statue's arm. 

Lina let go at once, easing Agatha to her feet and steadying her balance. "I apologize for the roughness of my demonstration, Aggie," she said. "Are you quite all right?" 

Agatha coughed and whooped, wiping her eyes. "For a moment, I thought you meant it," she choked. 

"Not at all. Your cravat will have protected your neck from bruises, although a certain soreness may be the inevitable result. I suggest you instruct your cook to prepare soothing jellies for the next day or so." 

This homely advice, so calmly given, broke the spell, although the guests still continued to view Lina with horror. Bram Stoker flicked his cigarette into the fireplace and said, "Perhaps you would care to explain to us the reason for this ludicrously melodramatic display?" 

"You all observed how Aggie attempted to break my grip with one hand, and with the other, instinctively strove to alert her nearest neighbor to her plight?" Lina helped Agatha to a chair and poured her a glass of brandy. "It was necessary to show you how Tatiana - or indeed, anyone else - would have reacted instinctively under such an attack. Of course, in the dark, Tatiana could have had no idea that the hand she clutched at so fiercely for help was that of an alabaster Anubis, nor could she have known that the connecting rod within the statue was rotted and would break off. But there is one particular point which is of significance." 

She crossed to the afghan shrouded body on the sofa, pulled the coverlet slightly aside, and lifted Tatiana's left hand. "Note how long and sharp her fingernails are - like veritable claws. I owe you an apology, my dear," Lina said to Rhiannon. "You believed there were flecks of blood here, and I casually dismissed them as rust. However, from the position of the body in relation to the statue, it becomes clear that she would have snatched at Anubis with her right hand, not her left. Therefore, the stains must have another explanation. You were quite right and I was a short-sided fool. They are blood. Not Tatiana's own, but that of her murderer." 

Rhiannon nodded. "You reexamined her, didn't you? After you finished in Hyacinth's room?" 

"Yes." Lina tucked the dead woman's arm back inside the afghan. "It occurred to me that I may have been overly hasty before. There is both blood and flesh beneath Tatiana's nails. She must have scratched her attacker deeply before expiring." 

Jefferson Hope, who had taken a cigar from Sir Edward, lit it from a taper. "So that lets all of us out. I don't see anyone with scratches here, do you? Have all the servants been closely looked at?" 

"I will get back to that point, but first, let us next reconstruct the events which took place after Tatiana's murder," Lina replied. 

Rhiannon sat down on an ottoman, listening intently. Although she had not discussed this with her partner - there simply hadn't been time - she still had a fairly good idea as to what was about to be revealed. 

"We were all in the dining room afterwards, when I questioned each of you regarding any past association with the murdered woman." Lina said. "A scandal in which Tatiana was involved at the Russian embassy three years ago was a common bond between some of you." 

"One should never make one's debut in a scandal," Wilde murmured, sprawled in an overstuffed chair. "One should reserve that to give interest to one's old age." 

The dark-haired woman ignored him. "In particular, Hyacinth DuRayne seemed the most affected. Her language was most inflammatory, her attitude one of utmost injury. It was clear that she detested Tatiana, but there was an odd note which I did not choose to press her on at the time. This would turn out to be a mistake on my part. Rhiannon, I believe you know what I am referring to." 

"Yes, I do." All eyes turned to Rhiannon, who took out her little silver notebook.

"According to her own words, Miss DuRayne only attended this party in the hopes of persuading Mister Stoker to give her a job. Yet at the same time, she spoke of acquiring a protector who would give her everything she needed - and I quote, 'if he knows what's good for him.' She was reluctant to give out more details, but questions remained: if she already had a man who was going to provide her with a living, why entertain the slim hope that Mister Stoker would give her a part? Why endure the company of a woman she hated if it wasn't needful? As Sherlock Holmes once said, 'once you have eliminated the impossible, then whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth." 

She spread her hands apart. "The only logical explanation is this - when Hyacinth DuRayne came to this Halloween party, she was desperate. Her only hope of maintaining an acting career was to impress or seduce Mister Stoker. Something happened here which changed all that. I believe that when she was in the dining room, speaking about a new 'fellow', she was actually warning someone at that very table that she had found out something. A piece of information so compromising, they would be willing to pay a great deal for her silence." 

Lina nodded. "Precisely. But what? It is impossible for Miss DuRayne to have actually seen anything incriminating in this room which the other witnesses did not. It is doubtful that the murderer would have been so indiscreet as to reveal his identity to her overtly. Therefore, I must assume that both she and Tatiana were in possession of a secret so dangerous, a man thought it necessary for them to be silenced forever. The only connection between Tatiana and Miss DuRayne was a ball given three years ago at the Russian embassy. A ball where diplomatic documents were stolen and a Duke - Tatiana's lover - committed suicide." 

Maud McIntyre sniffed loudly. "Charlotte Trelawney was at that ball as well. Is she the murderer or a potential victim?" 

Charlotte gasped, shrinking back against the wall "I didn't do it, I swear!" 

"I know," Lina replied. "However, you may be in danger as well." 

"Oh my God!" The artist's gauze ruffles trembled. "Why? I haven't done anything wrong?" 

"Don't worry your pretty little head," Sir Edward said manfully, patting the butt of his holstered pistol. "I won't let anything happen to you, Miss Trelawney." 

"That is neither here nor there," Lina said sharply, "although I'm sure Miss Trelawney appreciates your gentlemanly offer. Now then... to continue. If this ball is the only thread connecting a Russian courtesan and an English actress, then what could both women have possibly known that marked them for death? The only answer which makes sense is that they both recognized a third person - other than Miss Trelawney - who was in the embassy that fateful evening." 

"You mean the thief?" Jefferson Hope asked. 

"That is very likely. If this is the case, then Tatiana's death may have occurred because she threatened this person in some fashion. Hyacinth DuRayne died because of her blackmail ambitions." 

"Was this meeting accidental?" Agatha pressed a hand to her bodice. "Dear God, this is all my fault. I should never have agreed to host a party, but Tatiana was so happy, I didn't have the heart to tell her no." 

"I believe the murderer may have been waiting for the opportunity to do away with Tatiana. In fact, he has been waiting three years. You told me that the two of you had been away on a world tour for quite some time." 

"Eighteen months or so. Before that, we spent a year in Switzerland at a secluded resort. We didn't want to be disturbed. It was a sort of honeymoon," Agatha said, mouth drawing tight. "I met her in Siberia, actually. The first six months we were together, she insisted we move hotels a great deal, rarely staying more than a few nights at a time. I didn't object - I thought the gypsy lifestyle was rather romantic." 

Rhiannon raised her eyebrows. Where had she heard Siberia mentioned before? She consulted her notebook. Oh dear, she thought. This isn't going to be pretty. A wide leather belt cinched around her waist held a toy dagger with paste jewels on the hilt, and a small, mother-of-pearl handled pistol - one of a pair, gifts from Sherlock Holmes. She had worn it because she thought it made a pretty accessory to her gypsy costume; now, she was glad it was loaded. Rhiannon surreptitiously removed the pistol and hid it in her lap, just in case it was needed. 

"Now we have answered a few of our questions," Lina said, "although not as completely as we might have wished. How were the women killed? By their necks being broken after they were partially strangled to prevent them crying out. Why? Because they threatened the interests of an amoral man who has committed espionage and theft, was morally responsible for a suicide, and had no difficulty stooping to murder. Who is he? That is something which we will all learn shortly." 

She held out her arms. "According to fashion, all the woman here, with the exception of Rhiannon, are wearing shoulder length, kidskin gloves. The gentleman - including our unconventional Mister Wilde - have their hands covered to the wrist in gloves as well. As I have stated before, Tatiana had a quantity of flesh and blood beneath her fingernails. She obviously did some damage to her murderer that is not immediately visible." 

Lina faced the guests, shoulders square, chin up. "Gentleman, kindly remove your gloves and jackets, and roll up your shirtsleeves. One of you is a cold-blooded killer, and I fully intend to unmask you within the next few moments." 

Bram Stoker complied without a complaint. His hands and arms were unmarked. The same was true of Jefferson Hope, William McIntyre and Oscar Wilde. Only Sir Edward Carrol hesitated. 

"This is all a lot of rot and nonsense," he said, puffing a vile cigar. "Don't mind indulgin' a lady when she gets whims and starts thinkin' she's a real detective - a gentleman's got to humor the weaker sex from time to time, bless their fuzzy little heads. But this is goin' a touch too far, by Jove." 

Stoker bristled. "Why object now, Sir Edward? Especially since the rest of the man have 'humored' Lady St. Claire." 

"T'ain't right for a sahib to undress in the company of women," the explorer complained. "Against the code and all that, eh?" 

Pince-nez fastened firmly to the bridge of her nose, Ophelia Brandcourt peered at Sir Edward as if examining a bug beneath a microscope. "You are hardly a gentleman," she said. "I'd be more inclined to call you a great swaggering brute. It's attitudes like yours that have contributed to the oppression of women for centuries..." 

"Oh, do shut up, Ophelia! We don't need a lecture!" Charlotte cried. "Sir Edward, I assure you that every woman in this room has seen at least one unclothed man before. You cannot shock us; our sensibilities are obviously not as delicate as your own, and we will only be seeing your hands and arms. It's not as if anyone is asking you to model nude! Please, I beg you. If you continue to refuse, you will be suspected. Clear your name now, before the police arrive." 

Sir Edward shifted the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other, arms crossed over his chest. He shook his head stubbornly. 

"For God's sake! This farce has gone on long enough!" Stoker approached the explorer, his hands balled into fists. He was a full head taller than Sir Edward, and considerably bulkier. "Do as Lady St. Claire has asked, or it will be done for you!" 

Sir Edward smiled - it was a nasty, tigerish grin. The fan of sun-kissed wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened. "Very well. If you insist." 

He unbuckled his gun belt, holding it in one hand. Using his teeth, he removed first one pigskin glove, then the other. When the safari jacket was halfway off, exposing his right shirtsleeve, he suddenly swept his revolver from the holster of the belt. 

"I suppose it was inevitable," he said conversationally, standing upright with the revolver in his fist. The barrel was pointed at Lina, but he jerked it to include everyone else in the room. Rhiannon was seated closest to him, on an ottoman practically under his nose. "I didn't really think that alabaster hand of Anubis business was going to work." 

Rhiannon tightened her grip on he small pistol hidden in her skirts. She glanced at Lina, who shook her head imperceptibly. 

"Ah, Sir Edward. Your caricature of a British gentleman was a bit overdone, I think," the tall woman said critically. "But your name really isn't Carrol, is it?" 

"No, it is not. Sir Edward is a useful invention which has afforded me many opportunities." He let the safari jacket slide off completely. His left shirtsleeve was tattered and soaked in blood. The flesh of his forearm, glimpsed through the rents, was marred by deep, ugly scratches. 

"Painful but not life threatening," he commented. "Unlike this." The man flourished his revolver. His jolly, good-natured accent was gone, replaced by a cold precision of speech that was positively chilling. 

"Why did you do it?" Agatha asked, staring at him with reddened eyes. "Why kill Tatiana? What possible threat could she have posed?" 

"Because she recognized me! If only you knew the trouble I've gone through, trying to get my hands on that Russian bitch. She followed me to the Duke's office, saw me going through his papers. By the time she raised the alarm, it was too late. Of course, she didn't know my name - nor was I disguised as Sir Edward, then - but I found out she'd seen my face. I simply couldn't have that. Tatiana could've spoiled too many of my operations. I traced her to Siberia, but then she vanished. I learned she'd fallen in with the infamous Countess Orosz. I spent three years, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike, and this Halloween party was too good a chance to pass up. I used Sir Edward's persona and reputation to gain entrance. The rest was relatively simple." 

"You rotter! Are you a spy for a foreign power?" Stoker took a step forward, only to move back when threatened by the man's revolver. 

"I am English, and a gentleman, although some might argue that last point." 

"I'd swear she didn't know you." Agatha said. "She'd have told me!" 

"Ah, but she did. She knew the moment she saw me walk through those doors. I saw it in her eyes. Tatiana wanted revenge for the Duke's suicide, for the ruination of all her hopes. He might've married her, had his superiors not sent him a loaded dueling pistol for the purpose of blowing out his brains. The honorable fool!" The man known as Sir Edward laughed cruelly. 

He continued, "She wouldn't have gone to the police. She intended to expose me to the Russian embassy. If those Cossacks had gotten a message from her, they would have taken me away in chains. So in the darkness, I got my hands around her neck and was going to squeeze the life out of her, but she was a wildcat, and I broke her neck instead." 

"Whom do you work for, sir?" Lina asked quietly. 

"Why, for myself. And a certain Professor Moriarty. Perhaps you know the master, madame? Your Sherlock Holmes knows him very well, indeed." 

Rhiannon went white to the lips. It was because of the Professor's illegitimate daughter, Victoire, and the horrible events in Egypt that she'd attempted suicide. Things were better now, but the mention of Moriarty still had the power to rattle her. She swallowed thickly. Lina needs you; pull yourself together, woman, and stay focused!

"So you killed Tatiana to avoid exposure. Is that why you also killed Miss DuRayne? I seem to recall you mentioning that clever girls like her always get what they deserve." Lina rubbed the side of her nose. "Did she get what she deserved?" 

"Of course. The stupid slut thought she could bleed me for cash. After Tatiana's death, she suddenly realized where she'd seen me before and guessed that I'd killed the Russian tart. She invited me to her room to talk things over, and I seized my chance to shut her up forever." 

"Retrieving that alabaster hand from the drawing room was a nice touch." 

"It wasn't that difficult. I hoped to keep everyone off-balance until I could make my escape. I couldn't leave alone without drawing suspicion to myself, and I didn't want the police searching for me yet. A nice panic over a supernatural murderer seemed just the thing to empty the house, but then you came along with a reasonable explanation. I thought I'd try again. When I saw that busybody, Brandcourt, going into Hyacinth's room just after I'd put the hand inside, I started a little fire on the landing as a distraction. During the confusion, I planned to slip out a window, but you put paid to that as well." 

"I thought as much." Lina glanced at Rhiannon. Steady, my dear. Steady. "What do you plan to do with us?" 

"Why, I'm going to kill you all." The man glowed with confidence. "I'll begin with you, Miss Nosy Parker, because I loathe women who get above themselves. The men will follow. I have just enough bullets in the chamber to take care of those who might pose a real threat. After I reload, I'll finish off the ladies. Since the servants are cowering in their quarters, and no one's sent a message to the police, it may be as long as a day before the bodies are discovered. I'll be away by then, cleanly away, and it will be too late for pursuit." 

He took aim, the barrel of his revolver pointed unwaveringly at Lina's forehead. 

"Good-bye, Lady St. Claire," he said. 

Shockingly, heedless of her own safety, Lina surged forward, reaching for the gun. 

A bare second before her partner was in motion, Rhiannon whipped her small pistol free, jammed it into the man's armpit, and pulled the trigger. 

He roared in pain, blood fountaining out of the wound, and stumbled over the broken alabaster hand of Anubis, which lay on the carpet near his feet. In the same moment, Lina's outstretched hands made contact with his revolver, pushing it towards the ceiling, just as his finger instinctively tightened on the trigger. A thunderous bang and a puff of acrid smoke, and bits of ceiling plaster rained down onto the carpet. 

Despite his injury, the man struggled to turn his gun towards Lina. She held it away by brute force, teeth gritted, muscles cording in her shoulders and forearms. Terrified that her partner might be hurt, Rhiannon jumped off the ottoman and clapped her pistol to the side of the man's head. "Drop your weapon or so help me God, I'll splatter your brains over this room!" Her turquoise blue eyes were narrowed slits, her expression fierce. 

Bram Stoker leaped into the fray, putting a beefy arm around the man's neck. "If the little lady doesn't kill you, laddie, I will!" 

Ophelia Brandcourt picked up a fireplace poker. "Horrible, simply horrible! I'll see you hanged if it's the last thing I do, you blackhearted scoundrel!" 

Charlotte Trelawney cried, "I'm going for the police!" and darted out of the drawing room. Her shouts from the street could be clearly heard. In seconds, the shrill whistle of a bobby's alarm sliced through the air. 

Rhiannon loudly cocked her pistol and the man ceased struggling. Once glance at her face convinced him that she meant business. Bram Stoker released him reluctantly. 

"Well done, my dear!" Lina said. She thrust the man into a chair, wadded up his safari jacket, and used it as a compress to stop the flow of blood from his wound. "Quite a terrible experience, to be true, but you came through marvelously, as always." 

Drooping and ashen, Oscar Wilde said, "Experience is the one thing you can't get for nothing." 

Rhiannon gave the author a glance and continued to hold her pistol trained on the bleeding murderer. She said coldly, "In this case, the experience was paid for with two women's lives." 

Her retort left the witty Mister Wilde positively speechless. 

"His true name is Colonel Sebastian Moran," Sherlock Holmes said, watching as several burly constables loaded the injured man into the back of a police wagon. "Late of Her Majesty's Indian Army - the 1st Bungalore Pioneers - and the best heavy-game shot that our Empire has ever produced. I've always considered him the second most dangerous man in England." 

He closed the front door and led the way back into the drawing room. The other guests had gone home, and Countess Orosz was recovering in her bed chamber. 

Rhiannon thrust her little pistol back into its holster on her belt before sitting down. "What is his connection to Professor Moriarty?" 

"Ah, yes." Holmes' eyes glittered. "When Moran retired, having made India too hot to hold him, he was sought out by James Moriarty and used on one or two important jobs. Do you recall the murder of Mrs. Stewart, in Lauder, in 1887? No? Pity. The case had several points of interest, not the least that I suspected Moran of the crime, but had no evidence to prove his involvement. At any rate, the Colonel has long been living on his ill-gotten gains as a professional gambler, among other things. Spying and assassination for pay are two of his many skills." 

"He stole Duke Vladimir Abakumov's diplomatic documents three years ago," Lina said. "No doubt Moriarty sold them for a tidy sum and split the profits with Moran." 

"Yes, bought by Her Majesty's government, if my brother Mycroft is to be believed," Holmes replied. "Scotland Yard won't be holding Colonel Moran for very long, I fear. Mycroft is eager to question the man on his recent activities in the Congo - a missing safari party and a dead Earl's son - and I have heard that, as relations between Downing Street and Russia are somewhat strained at the moment, my brother intends to make a gift of Moran to the Czar's secret police." 

"And Tatiana's murder? Hyacinth DuRayne? Will Moran be punished for that as well?" Rhiannon asked, a sharp edge to her voice. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I apologize, Holmes. I just don't think it's fair for him to get away with it." 

"He will get away with nothing," Holmes said, a fierce expression on his saturnine face. "My dear Rhiannon, I assure you that Mycroft does not cringe from extreme measures when it comes to extracting information, and the Russians are not unskilled in that field, either. Hanging is, frankly, too good for the fellow. Before this affair is finished, Moran will beg for death." 

"He nearly shot Lina." Rhiannon scowled, "and he brutally murdered two innocent women. I agree with you - hanging's too good for that scum." 

"You stopped him from murdering us all, my dear," Lina said, coming to sit beside her partner. "I had every faith and confidence in you." 

The two women snuggled closely together, and a sudden thought struck the strawberry blonde. "Whatever happened to Tatiana's earring? The Colonel didn't have it, did he?" 

"No, it was the second parlor maid," Lina answered with a chuckle. "The poor girl was terrified she would get into trouble for pinching it. She found it on the floor when the servants came in to clean up after Aggie's gruesome prank. I believe it was torn from Tatiana's earlobe during her struggle with Moran and went unnoticed in the chaos." 

Holmes cleared his throat. "If you will excuse me, ladies, Mycroft has charged me with the supervision of Colonel Moran from Scotland Yard to his private offices. Thank you for allowing me to assist in your case, albeit belatedly." 

"It was quite a bizarre Halloween affair," Lina remarked. 

"More trick than treat," Rhiannon added with a smile. 

"Yes, indeed, my dear." Lina kissed her partner, making Holmes blush. "Yes, indeed." 

From outside came a horrific crash, followed by the screaming of horses and men's voices shouting, "He's getting away!" 

Spitting a mighty oath, Holmes sprang up and was out the door in seconds. 

Rhiannon's gaze followed him with concern. "Should we help him, do you think?" 

"No, I do not," Lina said firmly. Getting to her feet, she shook out her skirts with a clashing jangle. "The hour is early and the day is yet ahead of us. We have done quite enough, and I insist we allow poor Holmes to have his fun. Come, my dear. Let us go home." 

"I can't wait to get out of this costume." 

"And I can hardly contain myself from helping you out of it this very minute," Lina purred. There was a glint in her emerald eyes that Rhiannon recognized with growing elation. 

She ran to the front door. It gaped wide open, admitting breeze-blown leaves of brown, russet and gold. "Driver!" Rhiannon shouted, waving for a cab. "Grosvenor Square!" Grabbing Lina's hand, she scrambled into the carriage, not waiting for it to come to a complete stop. "And an extra pound if you get us there in less than ten minutes!" 

Lina's wicked chuckle wafted out of the cab as the driver whipped his horse to the utmost, the gelding's hooves ringing on the cobblestones. 

On the verandah of Arkham House - where a Countess grieved a little that she could not mourn her loss more deeply - a sad jack o'lantern, his candle long burned out, leered after the carriage, and the dark spirit of Halloween was dispelled for another year. 

THE END

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The Poltergeist Puzzle by Nene Adams ©2002 - All rights reserved

"This house," declared Mrs. Terwilliger, "is cursed!"

Evangeline St. Claire raised finely drawn brows and whispered to her lover, "A tad melodramatic, but what else can one expect from an American?"

Rhiannon Moore bit the inside of her cheek to stifle a laugh. "Lina, behave yourself," she replied as softly.

"Yes, my dear." Lina winked at her, which made Rhiannon flush. Mrs. Terwilliger went on, paying no attention to their by-play.

"Well, perhaps not cursed," the American matron gasped, so violently that the vast swell of her bosom threatened to explode out of the bodice of her Paris gown. She was a stout and well-fed woman, stringently corseted for fashion's sake. Any excitement left her breathless, pop-eyed and scarlet cheeked.

After a moment, Mrs. Terwilliger gulped and continued, "The house is haunted. I'm a woman of delicate nerves, Lady St. Claire. Fragile as spun glass. The goings-on here have nearly destroyed my health." Her voice rose as she warmed to her favorite subject. "I've been sickly all my life. Oh, how much I suffer! Neuralgia, carbuncles, gout, dyspepsia, morbid melancholia, catarrh, such pains in my head and flutterings of my heart that I can find no peace! My doctors have said..."

"Pardon me, madame," Lina interrupted, "but I believe we were discussing the events that have cause upheaval in your household?"

Mrs. Terwilliger sniffed, walked to the sideboard, and poured herself a stiff tot of brandy. Somewhat restored by neat spirits, she said more calmly, "I came to London because my son, Thomas, is marrying Lady Constance Howard on Sunday. I rented this house because it's in a respectable neighborhood, though not as fine as my home in New York, you understand."

"Indeed." Lina was sitting on the edge of the sofa in Mrs. Terwilliger's parlor, with Rhiannon settled in a deep armchair to her right. "Wyvern Crescent is a highly desirable and most respectable address. Quite close to Regent's Park, and there is a bank across the street."

"Yes, yes, but the agent didn't tell me the place was haunted!" Mrs. Terwilliger poured herself another glass of brandy. "It started about a week after I moved in. Strange grinding noises, hollow voices, knocks and bangs and so forth. I was naturally terrified. The servants nearly gave notice."

"Have you experienced anything along the lines of items moving from place to place, or missing altogether?" Lina asked.

"Well, my rhinestone lavaliere went missing a few days ago, but it turned up again the next morning. My maid found it in a potted fern. I didn't dare bring any of my good jewelry from New York. One hears dreadful tales of thieves and burglars, and I can't bear the thought of suffering such a violation. All my jewels are copies which I've had made. Copies sound enough to fool most people. Oh, Thomas refuses to believe me, but he's in love and cannot see how much I suffer."

"Is Thomas not staying with you?" Rhiannon asked, tucking a stray lock of strawberry-blonde hair behind her ear.

Mrs. Terwilliger drained her brandy glass. "No, he is not. Thomas is living at Brown's in Mayfair. I should have stayed there, too, but I prefer a proper home to a hotel. Besides, I had hoped to do some entertaining. Dinner parties and so forth. Lady Constance's family is well connected. Oh!" She stamped her foot. "This is all so vexing!"

Lina understood what was not being said. The Howard's were impoverished nobility, while Mrs. Terwilliger's son was wealthy but untitled. That sort of arrangement was common enough. Enough cash could cover up a multitude of sins, including an American mother-in-law of the vulgar, social climbing nouveau riche variety.

"Have you investigated the source of these nocturnal disturbances yourself?" Lina asked.

"Naturally not!" Mrs. Terwilliger's florid complexion turned a shade more scarlet. "What a thing to suggest! Have I not told you, madame, that I'm unwell? It's bad enough that I must endure these torments from a distance." Her bosom quivered dangerously. It took a moment for her to catch her breath and resume, "That's why I want you to do something about it. We're having the wedding breakfast here straight after the ceremony. The arrangements have all been made, and it's too late to alter the plans. I don't know what Lady Constance's parents will say if they find out, so it must all be done in secret and with the greatest haste possible."

Lina's inky brows shot to her hairline. "I beg your pardon?"

"Well, I went to see Mr. Sherlock Holmes - he was recommended by the agent's firm, Palmer & Sons -  but Mr. Holmes said that he was already working hard on an important case." Mrs. Terwilliger's corset strings creaked as she inhaled. "He said that you were available, and assured me that you could get the job done. Frankly, I was a skeptical. A female detective? I've never heard of such a thing. But since you're a lady, the same as Constance Howard, I thought it must be all right."

"I see." Lina's face was expressionless, her tone perfectly calm. Only Rhiannon saw the anger that ignited her partner's emerald eyes. Lina went on, "Perhaps you can explain, then, why I received a letter from my friend, Countess Carmogen, asking me to render you assistance?"

"Oh, that." Mrs. Terwilliger flapped her hands in dismissal. "Mr. Holmes said he'd take care of contacting you."

"You are not acquainted with Countess Carmogen?"

"Not at all. I'm sorry if you came here under false pretenses. I assure you that I'll make it worth your while."

Rhiannon knew that beneath her cool exterior, Lina was fuming. She hastily said, "No harm done, I'm sure."

Mrs. Terwilliger was oblivious. "My poor nerves are positively shattered." She had a third glass of brandy, tipping it back with the ease of a professional drunkard. "Why should I be bedeviled in this horrid manner? I shall run mad if something isn't done." The glass slipped from her hands, shattered on the floorboards. Mrs. Terwilliger let out a shriek, and burst into tears.

Lina jumped up with an oath, followed by Rhiannon. Together, they guided the stout woman to a chair and helped her to a semi-reclining position. Mrs. Terwilliger's corset was far too stiff to allow her to bend comfortably. Her head was propped up on the back of the chair, her heels on the floor, but the rest of her body was rigid. Rhiannon found a vinaigrette and waved the smelling salts beneath Mrs. Terwilliger's nose.

"What am I to do?" the woman moaned. Her streaming eyes seemed about to leap from their sockets. "Oh, why ever did I take this cursed house?"

"Calm yourself, madame, before I have to cut your corset strings to save you from suffocation." Lina smoothed the skirts of her unstructured Liberty silk gown. Contrary to fashion, neither she nor Rhiannon wore corsets. Lina prized ease of movement very highly. "Now then... I shall do what I can for you, but I must ask some questions first. Are you able to answer?"

Mrs. Terwilliger snatched the vinaigrette from Rhiannon, sniffed until she went cross-eyed, and dropped the silver case on the floor. Several constricted breaths later, she said, "Ask me."

"You said the noises began a week after you took possession of this house."

"Yes. Always at night, but not always at the same time. At first, the sounds were quite loud, mostly like fingernails scraping against a chalkboard. I heard a voice, but couldn't make out the words." Mrs. Terwilliger paused frequently in her recitation to draw labored breaths. "As the evenings progressed, the noises would grow fainter, then louder again. It was very frightening."

"Where did the sounds originate?" Lina asked.

"From below." Mrs. Terwilliger stabbed a ring-laden finger at the floor and shuddered. "I could hear most clearly through the sitting room fireplace. Once, I thought I heard a man's voice saying, "Olive." The name means nothing to me."

Lina frowned. "Has no one investigated the cellar?"

"Yes. The butler, Higgins, and my maid, Mary. They found nothing."

"These are your servants from America?"

"No." Mrs. Terwilliger rubbed her temples. "My own ladies maid fell ill just before we sailed, and had to be left behind in New York. Mary and Higgins were hired from a London agency. They both have excellent references."

Lina and Rhiannon exchanged a glance. They had been admitted by Higgins earlier. He was a scrawny old man who looked as if a good breeze might blow him arse-over-teakettle. Not quite doddering, but definitely past his prime. Higgins did not seem to be the type to exert himself unduly.

"Do you recall much about Mary's references?" Lina asked.

"She worked for Diana, Duchess of Northcar," said Mrs. Terwilliger proudly. "Of course, she was a parlor maid in that household. I had asked for a regular ladies maid, but Mary told me that she could do hair and the like. She's proved a godsend. Quite a neat hand at repairing seams. Another ladies maid turned up a day later, but I told her that I was already in good hands. I do so hate to have strangers about me, but Mary is very personable." She heaved a shallow sigh. "Will you help me, Lady St. Claire?"

"I will do my utmost," Lina replied. "Is there anything else you would care to add?"

"A friend of mine - Mrs. Henry Drake - said that the place is haunted by a poltergeist. Are you familiar with the word?"

Lina shrugged. "German, I believe. It means "noisy spirit." You refer, of course, to those mysterious nocturnal activities which you find so repulsive."

"If only it wasn't too late to make other arrangements for the wedding breakfast! Oh, Lady St. Claire, you're my last hope!"

"You have my word, Mrs. Terwilliger, that your house shall be plagued by poltergeists no more." Lina gave the reclining woman a little bow. She took Rhiannon's arm, drew her off to one side, and spoke to her quietly. "I will go and have a look at the cellar. Will you stay here, my dear, and watch over Mrs. Terwilliger? She is in a state of nervous exhaustion, and should not be left alone. I will not be long, I promise."

Rhiannon nodded. "Go on, then. I suppose when we're finished, you'll want to go to Baker Street and give Holmes the sharp side of your tongue? His treatment of this case was rather high-handed."

"Mrs. Terwilliger might be the most ridiculous woman in London, but I believe there is more here than meets the eye." Lina glanced around, turned her attention back to Rhiannon. Her expression had sharpened; there was an eagerness in her eyes that belied her calm posture.

The look on her partner's face was one that Rhiannon knew all too well. Lina was on the scent. Something about this poltergeist nonsense had piqued her interest. There would be no peace until she got to the bottom of the matter.

"Well, I don't see that there's anything to this business other than a highly-strung woman fueled by an overindulgence in spirits," Rhiannon said, careful to keep her voice down. "By spirits, I mean brandy, not ectoplasm."

"Ah, remember that Mrs. Terwilliger is not the only one to have heard our poltergeist. She stated that the servants are on the verge of giving notice. Although," Lina added with a smile, "that may have more to do with the lady's unpleasant disposition than otherworldly activities."

"True." Rhiannon shrugged, turquoise eyes dancing merrily. "I await your solution with bated breath."

"I shan't be long, my dear." Lina excused herself to Mrs. Terwilliger, and left the parlor.

While Lina was gone, Mrs. Terwilliger asked Rhiannon to ring for her maid. "I need my tonic, Miss Moore. It's the only thing that helps when my head is pounding so."

Rhiannon gave the bell pull a sharp tug. When no one answered after a few minutes, she tried again. Meanwhile, Mrs. Terwilliger fretted, and finally thrust herself out of the chair. "Where is Mary?" she demanded, her bodice heaving with indignation.

Higgins appeared, shuffling to a halt in the doorway. "Yes, madame?"

"I want Mary," said Mrs. Terwilliger. "Fetch her at once."

"Yes, madame." Higgins turned slowly on his heel and walked away, his grizzled head shaking from side to side.

Rhiannon tried to make her sit down again, but Mrs. Terwilliger refused. She paced up and down, growing more crimson and more breathless by the moment. Rhiannon began to fear for her when suddenly, the stout woman stopped dead in the middle of the floor. "Oh! Do you hear that, Miss Moore?"

"I beg your pardon?" Rhiannon was puzzled.

"Those horrible sounds! There they are again!" Mrs. Terwilliger clasped her hands beneath her chin and seemed about to faint.

Rhiannon picked up the vinaigrette from the floor, and passed it several times beneath the stout woman's nose. She prayed the smelling salts would work, as she was not physically capable of catching Mrs. Terwilliger if she should fall. At the same time, Rhiannon cocked her head, listening.

"Yes," she said, "yes, I hear them!"

It was precisely as Mrs. Terwilliger had described. Scraping, grinding noises emanating from below the floor, moving and growing fainter as the sounds angled out of the parlor. What seemed to be a person's voice, although Rhiannon could not make out what it was saying. "Where's the sitting room?" she asked.

"The room next to this one," said Mrs. Terwilliger weakly. Rhiannon took her hand and led her out of the parlor, towards the great stone fireplace in the sitting room. As she expected, the noises were clearer, apparently issuing from the chimney.

"Oh, my God!" Mrs. Terwilliger groped for the vinaigrette. "It's never happened during the day before. Is it the poltergeist, Miss Moore? Would it do any good to send for a priest? I'm not Catholic, but..."

"Shhh!" Rhiannon hissed, moving closer to the fireplace. The noises stopped. From behind, a voice said loudly, "You rang for me, mum?"

Mrs. Terwilliger let out a little scream and whirled around. A pretty young woman in a maid's black satin uniform was standing in the doorway. She carried a tray that held a cut-glass bottle of virulent emerald liquid, a carafe of water, a glass, and a spoon.

"Mary, you frightened me nearly to death!" cried Mrs. Terwilliger.

Mary managed to curtsey without dropping her burden. "I'm sorry, mum. Higgins said that you required your tonic." Her hair was dark, sleeked back from a high brow and coiled into a knot at the nape of her neck. She turned large black eyes upon Rhiannon, then her gaze flicked back to Mrs. Terwilliger.

"Very well, Mary." Mrs. Terwilliger pressed a hand to her ample bosom. "You gave me such a turn! Have you no compassion for my poor nerves?"

"I'm sorry, mum," Mary placed the tray on a table. With quick efficiency, she measured several spoonfuls of the emerald tonic into a glass, added water, and stirred. The resulting mixture was the color of pea soup.

Rhiannon wrinkled her nose, but Mrs. Terwilliger drank it down with every sign of enjoyment.

Lina strode briskly into the sitting room. She had removed her gloves, and her hands were bare. "Ah, there you are," she said, snapping shut the beaded reticule that dangled from her wrist. "Madame, there are one or two matters pertaining to your case which require further investigation. However, I am confident that I shall have a solution no later than this evening."

"This evening?" Mrs. Terwilliger blinked. "Lady St. Claire, your companion and I have just heard the poltergeist. Didn't we, Miss Moore?"

"Yes, we did." Rhiannon said, looking at Lina suspiciously.

Lina shrugged, unfazed by her partner's stare. "Be that as it may, we have a prior engagement which cannot be broken. Good day, Mrs. Terwilliger. Miss Moore and I will call upon you at ten o'clock, if that is convenient. I shall bring a police inspector as well as Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"Certainly." Mrs. Terwilliger's plucked brows were drawn together in puzzlement. "But what about the poltergeist?"

"Do not worry, madame." Lina smoothed the line of her gown. Rhiannon noticed a long streak of dirt on the chocolate colored silk. "You have my word that all will be well. Come, my dear. We really must be going."

Rhiannon made her good-byes to Mrs. Terwilliger. As she left the sitting room, she noticed Mary standing unobtrusively in a corner, her black uniform blending into the shadows. The maid's eyes were hooded, her expression bland except for the grim set of her mouth. Something about Mary's expression made Rhiannon uneasy.

It was not until they had retrieved their hats and shawls, and were outside of the house, that Rhiannon asked, "Lina, where are your gloves?" She held out her own hands for emphasis, clad in supple kidskin from fingertip to wrist.

"In a moment, my dear." Lina signaled for a hansom cab. She said to the driver, "Go around the block and take your time." She helped Rhiannon into the cab, then clambered in herself. As soon as they were settled and the horse lurched into motion, Lina sighed. "All right, my dear. It is safe to speak now."

"You found something in Mrs. Terwilliger's cellar, didn't you?" Rhiannon sat back, pulling the light veil of her hat down across her face. "Your dress is filthy. So, I would imagine, are your gloves."

Lina nodded. "I would prefer not to discuss my findings just yet. Although," she added hurriedly, spurred by the ominous gleam in Rhiannon's eyes, "should you insist, I will make every effort to divulge the few facts that I have ascertained. I would prefer to wait until the solution is completed."

"Now I know why Doctor Watson is often tempted to thrash Holmes within an inch of his life," Rhiannon murmured. "You're just as bad as he is sometimes. Absolutely maddening."

"Have patience, my dear. You will play a vital role in this evening's revelation. For now, we must separate." Lina held up a hand to forestall argument. "Your task is no less important than my own. I must keep watch on the house until you return. In the meanwhile, take this cab to Palmer & Sons in Piccadilly, my dear. Find out how long the house at Wyvern Crescent was vacant until it was let to Mrs. Terwilliger. The information is critical to the conclusion of our case."

Rhiannon clenched her hand into a fist and waved it in mock threat. "Swear to me that you won't do anything dangerous until I return."

"On my life, I swear it." Lina took Rhiannon's gloved fist, pried the fingers apart, and placed a kiss in the center of her palm. "Make haste, my dear. It is four o'clock now. I suspect that matters may come to a head very soon."

She banged on the roof of the cab, which rolled to a halt. Lina jumped out, handed the driver a folded banknote, and said, "Palmer & Sons in Piccadilly. Wait until my companion has finished her business there, and then drive her to Wyvern Crescent with all speed."

From the driver's involuntary oath, Lina's offering must have been a substantial one. Rhiannon was thrust back into the cushions as he snapped his whip over the horse's head, and the hansom cab rolled away at a good clip. Rhiannon struggled up, shoved her head out of the box. She caught a last glimpse of Lina, strolling in the direction of the haunted house.

Oh, love, Rhiannon thought, pulling herself back inside. Be careful.

It took nearly an hour to reach her destination, owing to an overturned cart that had been hauling beer barrels. The street was a confused jumble of carriages, nervous horses, cat-calling vendors and milling bystanders, all punctuated by the sharp smell of spilled beer. Rhiannon was ready to scream with impatience by the time the cab pulled up outside the firm of Palmer & Sons.

Getting the information proved to be more difficult than she had imagined. Mr. Palmer, Sr. was a punctilious little man whose concern for the proprieties verged on the obsessive. He fussed and fretted; even the invocation of Sherlock Holmes could not persuade him to commit what he saw as an indiscretion. Rhiannon pleaded and cajoled to no avail. Mr. Palmer retired to his office, unwilling to endure further argument. Fortunately, his clerk was not so cautious.

The young man turned the big accounts book around, so that Rhiannon could see it. He pointed at an entry and said softly, "Number 8, Wyvern Crescent, was let two weeks ago to Mrs. George Terwilliger from America. The property was first listed with this agency one week prior to the engagement."

"Thank you," Rhiannon replied, just as quietly. She slipped a five pound note from her reticule, slid it across the desk to him. He pushed it back to her.

"Never mind, miss. It was nothing." The clerk gave her a shy smile.

Rhiannon dimpled at him, then hurried out of the building to the waiting cab.

Taking another route, they arrived at Wyvern Crescent in a mere twenty minutes. Rhiannon exited the hansom, feeling as breathless as Mrs. Terwilliger. She saw no sign of Lina as she went up the walk towards the house. As she passed by a thick stand of boxwood hedge, hard hands grabbed her, whirled her into the shadows. Rhiannon gulped air, started to let it out in a scream which was cut off by a palm clapped across her mouth.

The figure leaned towards her, until it was close enough for Rhiannon to recognize the face. Lina!

"Silence, my dear," Lina whispered. Her hat was missing; dark tendrils of hair had escaped the braids wrapped coronet-style around her head. "I apologize for startling you."

Rhiannon nodded. When Lina failed to remove the hand across her mouth, she stuck out her tongue and wriggled it against her partner's palm.

Lina smiled. "It is good to see you as well." She released Rhiannon, only to wrap arms around her in an embrace. "Did you obtain the information we required?"

"Yes," Rhiannon breathed, pressing the side of her face against the taller woman's bosom. As always, Lina's subtle perfume bewitched her senses. "It was vacant for a week before Mrs. Terwilliger took possession."

"I thought as much. They have not had very much time to..." Lina broke off, peered through a section of hedge.

"Who hasn't had much time? And to do what?" Rhiannon turned her head, trying to see what had captured Lina's attention. "What is it?"

"Shhh." Lina reached into the pocket of her gown, removed a French muff pistol. The dainty, four-inch firearm had an engraved steel barrel, and the grip was ivory. It was a new acquisition, since her normal revolver was too heavy and bulky to be carried around when she was not wearing men's costume. Although it only carried two small caliber bullets, Lina was an exceptional shot. "I believe our prey has taken the bait. My dear, the people inside may be armed. They are most certainly dangerous. Can I not persuade you to remain here?"

"If you're going in there, so I am," Rhiannon said stubbornly.

"Very well." Lina's eyes glowed with mingled pride and apprehension. "With any luck, resistance will be disorganized. Do be careful, my dear. Should anything happen to me, promise that you will leave at once to fetch police assistance." She squeezed Rhiannon's shoulder with her free hand.

"I promise," Rhiannon lied. If anything happens to Lina, I'll kill whoever's responsible, if I have to do it with my bare hands. She knew that her partner felt the same.

"Are you ready?"

"Yes. What do you want me to do?"

"Simply follow my lead, my dear." Lina extended her arm into the air and fired a shot, then dashed around to the front of the house with Rhiannon at her heels. The maid, Mary, tried to bar their way, but Lina pushed her to one side.

Rhiannon saw that Mary, far from being rendered hors de combat, had picked herself up and was coming behind Lina with murderous intent, a broad-bladed kitchen knife in her hand. Rhiannon let out a curse and launched herself at Mary like an avenging Fury. The two women went down, rolling together on the floor, ending with Mary uppermost. Rhiannon was strong, but the maid had a wiry strength that she found difficult to overcome. The knife sliced downward, a glittering arc that plunged past Rhiannon's ear, nicked it in passing, and smacked into the floorboards. Mary's mouth was stretched wide in a terrible grimace; her eyes gleamed with rage.

There was scant time to consider her next move. Rhiannon managed to get her leg between them and pushed Mary hard, sending her sprawling backwards, away from the knife. Lina stooped over her and delivered a blow with her fist to the back of the woman's neck. Mary slumped over, unconscious.

Lina went over to Rhiannon. Her face was pasty white. "Are you unharmed?"

"I'm fine." Rhiannon took her partner's hand, used it to pull herself off the floor. Her ear stung as if it had been dipped in fire. Rhiannon touched the area with her fingers. They came back wet with blood. "Just a minor cut, I think."

Lina glanced at Mary's still form, then at the knife that was buried point downward in the floor. "Devil take it, that was far too close for comfort..." A loud crash from below made her head come up. "The game is afoot!" she cried. "My dear, the police should arrive any moment. Find Mrs. Terwilliger and stay with her." Lina sprinted out of the entrance hall, turned down a corridor beside the great staircase.

Rhiannon sighed, pinched her bleeding ear between her fingers, and went into the sitting room. She found Mrs. Terwilliger there, bound and gagged, lying rigidly on a chaise longue. The woman's eyes were bulging over the gag. When she saw Rhiannon, Mrs. Terwilliger made muffled, half-strangled noises.

"Are you all right?" Rhiannon asked, removing the gag and untying her.

Mrs. Terwilliger took several heaving breaths. Her face was nearly puce. She could not speak for several moments, merely stuttered. Rhiannon fetched her a large brandy, and watched while the stout woman gulped it as though the liquor was water.

Mrs. Terwilliger's teeth chattered on the glass. She composed herself with an effort, although her hands still shook. "Oh, Miss Moore! Such horrible doings in my house! Those men..."

From the fireplace there came a chilling sound - men's voices upraised in shouting and curses - and most blood-curdling of all, the barking of Lina's pistol as she expended her second and final shot. Rhiannon snatched up an iron poker and left Mrs. Terwilliger in the sitting room. She hauled her skirts up to her waist with no regard for modesty, and ran as fast as she could towards the cellar door. It was open, the narrow staircase illuminated by oil lamps from below. Rhiannon held the handle of the poker with both hands, the heavy length canted over her shoulder. She tumbled hastily down the steps, almost tripping over her skirts. The voices were louder, a confused jumble of coarse oaths and yells.

Lina was in the midst of a half dozen attackers; another three men were already stretched out on the floor by virtue of the baritsu skills taught to her by Holmes. A fourth was sitting in a corner, holding the bullet wound in his left shoulder. Rhiannon waded into the fray without a second thought, her poker delivering blows to heads and knees. Meanwhile, Lina's foot came blurring around at an angle to crack an opponent's jaw. He fell with a groan, and she stamped forward to meet a second man, striking at her with an earth clotted shovel. Rhiannon swung hard at the shovel wielder, hitting him square in the belly with her poker. His breath went out in a gust; he folded forward, to meet the edge of Lina's hand with his nose. A burst of scarlet stained his unshaven features. He shrank back whimpering, clutching his broken nose, and fell against a crate, which split open.

Rhiannon found herself hard pressed by a giant of a man, whose misshapen ears and scarred features proclaimed him a boxer. He grinned at her, showing missing teeth. His head seemed to brush the ceiling of the cellar. He reached for her, and she moved away. If he trapped her within the circle of his oak-muscled arms, he could kill her easily.

Lina, having dispatched another opponent, saw her partner's danger out of the corner of her eye. She snatched up a board from the broken crate, and used the end to swat another man out of her way, hitting him in mid-air as he leaped at her. The faint shrilling of a police whistle made her shout, "In here, quickly! The cellar!"

The boxer turned around adroitly, making for a dark hole in the east wall. A pile of dusty boxes stood to one side. The whistling grew louder; heavy footsteps thundered on the stairs. Changing his mind, he moved with astonishing quickness and grabbed Rhiannon, twisting her wrist to force her to drop the poker. He held her tightly against him, his beefy arm across her throat.

Lina froze, the board half raised. "Olivetti," she said, her voice dangerously calm, "if you harm one hair of her head, men will shudder for a hundred years at the memory of your fate."

Olivetti's eyes glimmered in the golden lamplight. "Let me go," he replied. His accent was cultured, completely at odds with his rough appearance. "Call off your dogs or I'll break her neck."

Several policemen piled into the cellar. They halted at the sight of Olivetti, who clutched his hostage tighter.

"Back off," he said. "Just let me go. I'll not hurt her, but you have to let me go."

"This is your last offense, Olivetti. The judge has already put you down as a hard case. You'll not come out of Newgate alive," said one of the policemen, which earned a glare from Lina.

"Do desist," she said to him cuttingly. The policeman began a protest, which was interrupted by Olivetti.

The giant man held Rhiannon in a bruising grip. "I'll kill this little girl, I swear it."

Lina had advanced closer, but halted when Olivetti's handling elicited a gasp from Rhiannon. "This does not have to end violently," she said. "Release her at once, and I will do everything within my power to ensure that you have a fair trial."

"Fair?" Olivetti sneered. "Why should I believe you?"

"Henry?" a voice called from upstairs. It was the maid, Mary. "Henry, what's going on?"

"Stay up there, sweetheart," he called. "I'll join you in a moment."

Lina's steady gaze cut towards the staircase. "Your paramour?" she asked. "I suppose you love her."

"She's my woman," Olivetti replied. He jerked his elbow, forcing Rhiannon's head further back. "Now get out of my way."

Instead, Lina moved deliberately to block the staircase. She dropped the board, drew her French muff pistol, and pointed it up the stairway. "Mary, come down immediately or I shall shoot you where you stand. I am an excellent shot, and can hardly miss at this range. I assure you - and you, Mr. Olivetti - that even a small caliber bullet can do substantial damage to the human body."

Olivetti's agonized gaze shot towards the pistol. "Don't hurt her," he said hoarsely.

Mary's reluctant footsteps sounded on the treads. She appeared within a few moments, her lips trembling. The maid's dark hair was loose, her uniform torn at the hem. "Henry, do something," she said, giving Lina a look that promised murder.

"It seems that we are at an impasse," Lina said, reaching with her free hand to drag Mary the rest of the way down the stairs. She put the muzzle of her little gun against Mary's temple. "If you do not release Rhiannon at once, I shall kill your lover." Her emerald glance was filled with icy purpose. "Do not doubt me, Mr. Olivetti. Make no mistake, this woman will die the moment Rhiannon ceases to draw breath."

"Now, see here," said the impudent policeman. "We can't be having all this!"

"Do me the kindness of closing your mouth and not displaying your ignorance so prominently," Lina snapped at him. She turned her attention back to Olivetti. "Well, sir? What is your decision?"

Olivetti looked at Mary, then at Lina. "Ladies' guns don't hold many bullets," he said doubtfully.

In answer, Lina cocked back the hammer with her thumb. "Would you care to test your theory?"

Their eyes met. A bead of sweat trickled down Olivetti's scarred face. His mouth twisted, and he thrust Rhiannon away from him. Immediately, policemen fell upon the giant, wrestling his arms behind his back. Bulldog handcuffs were snapped into place around his wrists. The rest of the criminals were rounded up as well, including the man that Lina had shot.

Lina still had hold of Mary. "My dear," she said to Rhiannon, "did he hurt you?"

Rhiannon rubbed her aching arms, which were bruised to the bone. The small wound on her ear had opened, and her silk dress was spotted with blood. She was tired and exhilarated, all at the same time. "I'm fine, love." Although the pressure was off her throat, she still felt the iron bar of Olivetti's forearm pressing there. Her wrist hurt, too, where he had twisted it.

"Let go of me!" Mary squealed, pulling away from Lina. She stumbled into a policeman, who put her in handcuffs. She spat in his face, struggled to get away. She was quickly subdued.

Catching Olivetti's stare, Lina leveled her dainty pistol at him and pulled the trigger. He flinched. The hammer struck with a dry click. "As it happens," she told him, "I was out of ammunition."

Olivetti slumped, and allowed himself to be led away.

Rhiannon went to Lina and leaned against her. "I would have preferred to deal with a real poltergeist," she said. Lina kissed her, and gave her a handkerchief which Rhiannon used to dab at her bleeding ear.

Once upstairs, Lina sat Rhiannon down to have a look at her injury. Mrs. Terwilliger hovered over them, alternately exclaiming, gasping for breath, and on the verge of fainting from sheer excitement. Lina ignored her until she had attended to her partner's wound, which was small - a scrap of flesh torn from the upper part of the ear. Rhiannon's wrist was immobilized with a strip of linen, and Lina promised to apply arnica to her bruises when they returned home.

When she had finished, Lina poured Mrs. Terwilliger a brandy, gave Rhiannon a small glass of sherry, and settled down next to her on the sofa to relate her tale.

"Strange grinding noises," Lina said, recalling what Mrs. Terwilliger had related earlier. "Hollow voices, knocks and bangs. A missing rhinestone lavaliere, returned the morning after its disappearance. A parlor maid turned ladies maid. An overheard name - Olive. All these things, added to the fact of a bank across the street, led me to believe that Number 8, Wyvern Crescent was being used as a base for criminal activity."

Mrs. Terwilliger pressed a hand to her ample bosom. "Thieves? In my house? Oh, dear! However will I explain this to Lady Howard? She'll blame me for the entire thing, I'm sure!" Her corset was under severe strain.

"Be that as it may," Lina continued, overriding the matron's piteous exclamations, "please allow me to paint the picture in full. Harry Olivetti is a former boxer, now the head of a ruthless gang of thieves. He is the chief suspect in last year's robbery of the Duchess of Northcar's jewels. As I recall, the parlor maid was also implicated, but there was no real evidence against her."

"Mary! Oh, that perfidious chit of a girl!"

"Do calm yourself, madame." Lina got up, brought the brandy bottle from the tantalus, and set it on a table near Mrs. Terwilliger. "Now, then... this house fell vacant three weeks ago. I do not know when Olivetti first contrived his devilish scheme, but before you took possession, he and his gang had already begun work in the cellar. The idea was to dig a tunnel straight across the street, and come up beneath the floor of the bank vault." She turned to Rhiannon. "Perhaps, my dear, you recall a similar circumstance in which Holmes foiled the plans of one John Clay, who had formulated a plan to dig a tunnel through to the vault of the City and Suburban Bank at Saxe-Coburg Square."

"The Red Headed League is dissolved," Rhiannon murmured. Dr. John Watson's accounting of this strange case was due to be published by the Strand Magazine in next year's August edition.

"Precisely." Lina swung her gaze back to Mrs. Terwilliger, who was giving her a pop-eyed stare and clutching her brandy glass. "At any rate, the work began, but was interrupted by your arrival. Olivetti was forced to deception. From your remarks, I gathered that you had not interviewed anyone at the agency, but merely gave your requirements for appropriate servants. Meanwhile, Mary - the parlormaid whom we now know to be an associate of Olivetti's - was sent here by her lover, in order to seek employment. The gang needed someone inside the house. Mary took advantage of your situation to insinuate herself into a trusted position. Although she could not have known it, her references from the Duchess of Northcar practically guaranteed her a place in your household. You are, madame, a woman who thinks highly of such things."

"Yes, yes," said Mrs. Terwilliger, "I simply cannot have less than refined persons working for me. My nerves are too delicate for coarseness, you see. I thought that anyone who had been maid to the Duchess of Northcar must be all right. Oh, that horrible sneaking wench!"

"Mary let the gang into the house each night, and showed them out again in the morning. She only slipped once, when the lure of your lavaliere led her into an indiscretion. She took it, but Olivetti has a good eye for jewels and knew it for a copy. By this time, you were already convinced that your house was haunted, so you attributed its disappearance to poltergeist activity."

"And to think that I believed she was charming!" Mrs. Terwilliger cried indignantly.

Lina continued, "The tunnel entrance in the wall was concealed behind a stack of dusty boxes. Few people would bother to shift such a filthy load, assuming that there was a solid wall behind them. I ruined my gloves earlier today when I uncovered the truth. Olivetti's tunnel was nearly complete. His work was made easy by the fact that your cellar floor is hard packed earth, thus rendering disposal of superfluous dirt a simple matter. He and his men had less than two feet more to dig before they reached their target.

"I had to do something that would force Olivetti's hand, bring him to me in a time and place of my choosing. When I saw Mary in the sitting room, I deliberately said that Rhiannon and I would return at ten o'clock tonight, bringing with us a police inspector and Sherlock Holmes. It was after four o'clock, and the bank was closed. Mary sent a message to Olivetti. He and his men came here, hoping to finish their work, clear the vault, and be on their way out of the country before the authorities caught on to his scheme. Fear of Holmes led Olivetti to a desperate error in judgment." Lina plucked the sherry glass from Rhiannon's hands and took a delicate sip.

"So it was a trap!" Rhiannon retrieved her glass, giving Lina a mock glare.

"Yes, my dear, it was. We departed by hansom cab, but as you know, I remained here to watch the house while you went to Palmer & Sons to obtain information."

Rhiannon snorted. "A wild goose chase."

"Not at all. I knew the distance between the cellar and the bank, and the dimensions of the tunnel, but needed to know how long Olivetti's men had been working in order to determine approximately how many gang members he had at his disposal. You see, an average man who is not a mine worker or earthworks expert can dig only so many feet per six to eight hours each evening. My calculations included shoring-up the ceiling with timbers - a decidedly shoddy job, which told me that none of Olivetti's gang had such expertise. My hypothesis required the correct time frame. Once I knew how many days they had actually been working, I could then calculate approximately how many foes we would be facing.

"While you were gone, I alerted the police and arranged a signal. All this had to be done before the gang arrived, as I would not have had any way of communicating with the officers without possibly being spotted and alerting them to the trap. Had you told me that the house was vacant for a month or more, I would have known that Olivetti's gang was composed of perhaps two or three others. In that instance, I would have fired twice to let the police know that reinforcements were not necessary. They would have held off, as Olivetti is a dangerous man who is known to react badly when cornered. They were content to allow 'Mr. Holmes' to handle the situation. I am not above invoking the Master's name if it allow me to have my way."

"I see." Rhiannon smiled. "I, too, used Holmes as a name to conjure with, though without your success."

Lina returned her smile. "As it was, my dear, I only fired once - the signal that assistance was required immediately. I found their subsequent delay to be quite infuriating." Her face grew serious. "It was one of the worst moments of my life, when Olivetti took you hostage. Thank God the man did not know that I was bluffing. However, had my muff pistol been loaded, I would have killed Mary without hesitation had he harmed you."

"I had every confidence in you," Rhiannon said. "I never doubted you for a moment."

"But... but... what about me!" cried Mrs. Terwillger. "You should have told me!"

"I was confident that Olivetti would not harm you, madame," Lina explained. "He is a bank robber, not a murderer. Had they been caught with stolen goods, the men would have served time in gaol, but murder is a hanging offense, and Olivetti knew it. If I had informed you of my plan, you would no doubt have fled the premises, and my trap would have proved useless. Now you have been merely inconvenienced, and a dangerous criminal has been apprehended."

Mrs. Terwilliger was stunned. She goggled and spluttered, turning more and more crimson, until Lina feared she was about to perish from apoplexy.

"I do beg your pardon, madame," Lina said, bathing the woman's temples with a brandy-soaked handkerchief, "however, I deemed the deception necessary to lull the criminals into a false sense of security. Had I truly believed you were in danger, I would have acted immediately, I assure you."

Mrs. Terwilliger found her voice again and wailed, "Oh, but what am I going to tell Lady Howard?"

Lina's eyes twinkled. "Tell her that the criminals were forced to give up the ghost," she said.

Rhiannon groaned. "I'm dying to hear you tell that to Holmes. He deserves it."

Both women began to giggle.

"Well, it was his fault that we became involved in the case," Lina finally said. "I suppose we will have to take his interference in the spirit in which it was intended."

"Oh, that's perfectly frightful!" Rhiannon guffawed.

"Yes, this will no doubt haunt him for years!"

Mrs. Terwilliger's let out a scream of anguish at the puns, and her overstrained corset burst apart with a rending tear that utterly ruined her Worth gown.

THE END

<~~~~~ Return to the Library

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The Fall of the Phoenix by Nene Adams ©2003 - All rights reserved

PROLOGUE

Nor shall this peace sleep with her: but as when
        The bird of wonder dies, the maiden phoenix,
        Her ashes new create another heir,
        As great in admiration as herself;
        So shall she leave her blessedness to one,
        When heaven shall call her from this cloud of darkness,
        Who from the sacred ashes of her honour
        Shall star-like rise...
-----William Shakespeare

CHAPTER ONE

London, England
May 1891

Rhiannon looked up from her needlework, a small smile curving her lips. "What problem are you wrestling with, love?"

Lady Evangeline St. Claire fluttered the letter in her hands and scowled. "I wish all cat owners to the Devil!" she exclaimed. Lina was sprawled full length on the sofa opposite Rhiannon's chair, long legs overhanging the scrolled padded arms. Dressed casually in a battered green robe that matched her eyes, Lina's black hair was down, her feet were bare and she resembled a Bohemian maiden rather than a wealthy woman of breeding and intellect. "Another tear-stained request to locate a lost moggie, my dear. Bah! I wonder if Holmes is forced to put up with such odious insults!"

Rhiannon's grin grew more mischievous. "Don't tell me you're going to start searching for misplaced pussies!"

"Hardly, my dear," Lina drawled, screwing up the offending letter and tossing it over her shoulder. "Why should I seek other pussies when I have a perfectly serviceable one at home?"

Rhiannon blushed furiously and giggled, causing her lover to raise an eyebrow.

"You know I am referring to Muggins, the kitchen cat!" the dark-haired woman said with mock severity, although her eyes twinkled with suppressed glee. "Alas! Such deception. Mistaking her for a lady, I wed a guttersnipe. Woe is me! What will the upper crust think?"

Rhiannon hurled a cushion with deadly aim.

"Now I am subjected to physical abuse? This is not to be borne!" Lina sat up and pushed her hair out of her eyes. "I am almost certain that pillow fights were not in our wedding contract."

For answer, Rhiannon carefully laid her needlework in a willow basket, stood up, put her hands on her hips and stuck out her tongue.

Lina could not resist. "Is that an invitation, my dear?"

Both women dissolved into giggles.

When Lina finally caught her breath, she looked at her partner and love with appreciation. She grows more beautiful every day, the lady thought. I do not know how or why I deserved to win such perfection, but I thank God for it with every beat of my heart.

Rhiannon was dressed in a simple, unstructured Liberty's silk dress of cream and navy stripes which complemented her fine turquoise eyes; an embroidered design of strawberries and leaves around cuffs, collar and hem provided a colorful touch. Her red-blonde hair was twisted into a pair of school-girlish braids that swung freely to her waist, framing a kitten-pretty face.

"Why are you staring at me?" Rhiannon asked. "Has my nose turned green?"

"No, but I imagine that the sun has become the very color of envy, since you, my dear, far outshine its brightness."

The smaller woman blushed again. "So poetic!" She poked at the fireplace with the poker; although it was early spring and had warmed up considerably, there was still a little touch of frost in the air. "I'm famished, love. Do you want tea?"

"I offer her burning verse and she prefers scones! Is it any wonder I am undone?" Lina exclaimed dramatically, flinging herself back down on the sofa. "Very well, ring for Jackson. I am certain he will be able to satisfy your appetites where I cannot."

Rhiannon leaned over and kissed her partner tenderly. "While I am fond of scones, I love you more."

It was Lina's turn to flush gently. "To be perfectly truthful, I am feeling a mite peckish myself." She brushed Rhiannon's cheek with the knuckles of her hand. "Summon our gallant butler, my dear. Let us see what delectable delights await us on the tea tray."

While her partner pulled the tapestry cord vigorously, Lina reached over and snagged another letter from the pile on the hearth. "Hmmm..." She slit the envelope open with a knife, brows creasing in a frown as she read to the end. The expression on her face grew more thunderous by the moment. She read the letter a second and third time. When tea was delivered, Lina mumbled a refusal, her face beginning to turn a searing shade of crimson.

Rhiannon was happily consuming a scone slathered with clotted cream, oblivious to the danger signals. A shouted exclamation of heartfelt profanity from the sofa nearly made her choke.

"Hell and damnation!"

Rhiannon swallowed with an effort, coughed and took a sip of tea. "Whatever is the matter, love?" she asked in a slightly strangled voice.

"This!" Lina held the letter as if it were a poisonous viper. "The sheer effrontery! The positive nerve!"

"Another inquiry after a lost cat?"

"Worse!" Indignation positively crackled off the lady. "Much, much worse!!"

"Well, for goodness' sake! What on earth's got you in such a state?" Rhiannon said with a touch of annoyance, dabbing a blot of spilled cream off her sleeve.

Lina scowl grew blacker still. "It is the end of the world as we know it," she pronounced heavily. "It is our doom."

Rhiannon resisted the urge to grab her taller partner by the ears and give her a good shaking. "Stop playing silly buggers and tell me what's in the letter!"

The lady sighed, "I can hardly bring myself to subject you to such..."

"Lina!"

"Very well, my dear. You have been warned." Lina rubbed her suddenly aching temples and wished fervently that she hadn't given up strong drink. "It is... a letter from my mother. My mother, who disapproves of me so strongly we have not spoken five civil words to one another in years. My mother who would rather suffer the death of a thousand cuts than be seen in the same room as her disgraced daughter. My mother, the grand Duchess, who would no more acknowledge our relationship than fly to the moon. This same woman is inviting us to Inishglen. Both of us. You and I. For a week. She actually uses your name in this missive, my dear. Astonishing! The purpose of this mind-boggling exercise is to meet my deceased father; it seems the pater familias has not accepted his Heavenly reward quite so promptly as might be desired."

Rhiannon came close to choking again.

"Mother is spouting a load of spiritualist claptrap. She used to be a sane woman," Lina mused. "Could it be entropy of the womb that has caused this hysterical madness? Good Lord, I hope not. Insanity runs in families, you know."

Rhiannon picked up her tea with a shaking hand and took a big swig. This was just too impossible a thing to believe before dinnertime.

In fact, it was damn near terrifying.

CHAPTER TWO

"There's nothing else to argue about, Lina," Rhiannon said firmly, folding another dress and putting it into the trunk. "Of course we're going." She had gotten over her initial misgivings and was actually looking forward to seeing her partner's childhood home, if not her formidable mother.

Still, the Duchess did invite me by name so I don't think she's going to throw me into the dungeon as soon as we arrive, Rhiannon thought. And besides, I'm beginning to be intrigued by the hints in her letter. Has she really got a tame spiritualist calling up the restless dead in her drawing room?

"My dear, you do not know what fresh hell awaits you in Ireland," Lina said mournfully, sitting down on the side of the bed. "Imagine an ancestral castle whose depths have not been plumbed since it was built in 1690 by a relative with considerably more cash than taste. The interior is a Gothic horror which would give the most even-minded individual nightmares for a fortnight. Leering gargoyles, empty suits of armor, groaning floorboards, squeaking doors, spiderwebs thickly coating forgotten corners..."

"Sounds like the Castle of Otrano," Rhiannon replied, putting a shoe bag into the trunk. "I thoroughly enjoyed that book."

Lina shuddered. "You have rather low tastes in literature. Have I mentioned that the indoor plumbing is barbaric at worst, willfully recalcitrant at best?"

"That sounds adventurous. Should I pack extra bath salts, do you think?"

"Inishglen is situated in the backside of nowhere. The nearest neighbors are literally miles away."

"Well, I imagine we could both do with a peaceful holiday."

Lina grasped her lover's wrists, feeling thick scar tissue under her fingers, a legacy of the woman's suicide attempt almost two years ago. It had taken her considerable effort to stop flinching at this reminder of failure. My fault, my grievous fault, whispered the ghost of guilt, still alive after all this time, and Lina pushed the thought away. "Do you really believe this nonsense about the spirit world?" she asked. "Can the dead live again?"

Rhiannon's half-closed eyes were a mere glimmer of blue beneath long lashes. "I think people believe what they wish, not necessarily what is true," she replied carefully. In her opinion, only desperately unhappy people sought solace in spiritualism but she wasn't going to tell Lina that. "I don't know if this Madam Bahzanova is a real medium or whether she's deceiving your mother. Either way, we'd better find out."

In the face of this logic, Lina had to surrender. "Very well," she said, releasing her partner and springing up from the bed. "Be sure to pack sufficient evening dresses, my dear. Mother is notorious for insisting on formal attire when we dine."  Lina busied herself with another trunk; their maid Solange was taking a holiday in Paris, so they had been left to their own devices. She was not going to argue anymore; experience had taught her the futility of denying Rhiannon something she really wanted.

I suppose I must accept defeat with good grace, Lina thought. I hope that Mother will behave herself during our visit. If she attempts to dredge up that 'daughter of a thousand earls' nonsense and treats Rhiannon badly, or puts on those superior airs... well. They say one should respect one's parents but I will not allow such behavior. A single cutting remark or thinly veiled reference to 'common blood' and we will leave the Duchess to her fate.

Respect is one thing, the bonds of affection another. I will not make my love a martyr to my mother's inflexible notions of respectability and class.

"Have you ordered the 'Princess Bride' brought up?" Rhiannon asked. They would be taking their private, sumptuously appointed railcar as far as possible before catching the ferry to Ireland, and then by coach to Inishglen.

"Jackson has made the arrangements." Lina held up two gowns at arms length, shook her head, and shoved them back into the wardrobe, heedless of creases. "Cook has packed sufficient picnic baskets to feed an entire regiment. The footmen have been dispatched to the station to clean the car and fill the watertank before our arrival. A quantity of clean linens, soaps and scents, dishes, towels, dressing gowns, glasses, wines, blankets and other sundry items have also gone ahead. And before you ask, my dear, the answer is no."

"No?" Rhiannon contrived to look puzzled. "Whatever are you talking about?"

Lina swung a finger in the direction of the fireplace. A huge shaggy beast lay on the hearth, its muzzle split in a good natured but toothy grin. Fyvie, an Irish wolfhound, had been adopted after the tragic events in Scotland that had ended with Rhiannon inheriting a fortune of her own.

"We are not taking this hairy appetite to Inishglen," Lina said. "My mother breeds delicate, highly strung pugs and would certainly object to her little friends being bitten, bullied or consumed by Fyvie."

As if answering Lina's accusations, the wolfhound rolled over and showed her belly, paws flapping ridiculously at the air in a show of, see how harmless I am? Rhiannon laughed. "Well, shall we ask Holmes to act as nanny during our absence?"

The mere mention of her dear friend's name made Lina grimace in annoyance. "I fear Holmes is not available, my dear. I received word from him this morning. Having put paid to a number of minor criminals, he is off to Switzerland in hot pursuit of Moriarty - the so-called Napoleon of Crime. No further details were forthcoming. Blast the man! He clutches secrets to his bosom more tightly than a miser's gold."

A pair of stockings fell from Rhiannon's suddenly nerveless fingers. "Is... is..." She licked her lips and tried again. "Is Victoire with him? Her father, I mean?" Her blood seemed to be threaded with flame. Victoire... Moriarty's illegitimate daughter. Author of so many horrible sins, so many unspeakable torments, so much pain.

Lina quickly tossed aside a shoe and wrapped the smaller woman in an embrace, stroking her back soothingly. "Please, my dear. Do not fret. It has been a long time since Egypt..."

"Not long enough! And she escaped her cell six months ago!" Rhiannon shuddered but it was from anger, not fear. "There's been no trace, nothing. Victoire murdered two guards and God knows who else. She could be anywhere! I know you have spies searching but I wish you'd killed her then, Lina. I really do."

Lina felt helpless and furious, all at the same time, but made an effort to control herself. "If Victoire Rousseau is with Moriarty, rest assured that Holmes will deal with her. If not..." Her fingers tightened around her lover's shoulders. "The moment that blonde bitch comes within ten miles of us, all the mercy in the world will not be sufficient to spare her life again."

Rhiannon glanced up at the feral expression on Lina's face... and her lips stretched in a savage grin of her own.

"Good. This time, I get to help," she said.

Fyvie whimpered in canine dread, sensing her mistress' dark thoughts.

Lina cleared her throat. She knew Rhiannon was capable of violence if necessary - a far cry from the terrified, fainting lily she'd been in the beginning of their relationship - but the depths of the woman's ferocity surprised even her sometimes. "I will be sure and pack a firearm," she said, giving Rhiannon a final caress. "Just in case it is needed."

"Don't forget the ammunition," the strawberry blonde said, pulling away and taking a stack of hatboxes into her arms. "If nothing else, you can use the gargoyles for target practice." The anger was fading... for now. She would love nothing so much as to dance on Victoire's grave, preferably in canary yellow satin. Still, not wanting to dredge up the hurtful past anymore, she made a light jest and pretended to be less concerned than she actually was.

Lina chuckled and felt some of the tension melt away. Not all of it, however. "My dear, do you really think this trip is a good idea?" she asked anxiously. "My mother can be difficult."

Rhiannon shrugged. "So can everyone's mother, I suspect. It's about time I met your Duchess. I'm sure she isn't nearly as bad as you make her out to be."

This confident and completely incorrect pronouncement took Lina's breath away. Her lover took advantage of the temporary stunned silence to add, "Oh, and Fyvie is coming with us, since Holmes won't be available to take care of her and Solange is on holiday. You know how she pines when she's left alone. I'm sure our sweet doggie won't find Pugs that tasty, especially without sauce, and even if she does eat one or two, I'm sure your mother won't notice." Rhiannon winked at the wolfhound and
hastened to finish packing.

On the hearth, Fyvie thumped her tail and yawned while Lina struggled to formulate a reply.

By the time one came to mind, it was too late.

With a sigh, Lina went down to the kitchen to arrange food for Fyvie who, it appeared, was coming with them after all.

CHAPTER THREE

 They arrived at Inishglen on a beautifully crisp but sunny morning. Rhiannon caught her breath as she descended from the coach. The castle walls of pearly gray stone gleamed in the brilliant light, and a crimson and black flag bearing a phoenix crest fluttered from the top of the battlements, indicating that the Duchess was in residence.

Inishglen was a huge, sprawling monstrosity of a building, with turreted towers, gargoyle rainspouts, Gothic arched windows bristling with carved ornaments, and an iron studded door that seemed wide enough to accommodate a chariot battalion. There was something ancient and brooding about Inishglen, a suggestion of burly shoulders hunkered down in anticipation, of bloody axes and screams in the night, of cackling fiends and rattling chains. Rhiannon pulled her paisley shawl closer and threaded her arm through Lina's.

She stared at the castle... and for a moment, she could have sworn that it stared back, and found her wanting.

The front door opened and the Duchess emerged, followed by a paunchy man with thinning brown hair whom Rhiannon assumed was the butler. ''My dearest Vangie, oh my precious pet!'' the Duchess trilled, skipping down the path to fling her arms around her much taller daughter. ''Welcome home, pet! Welcome home!''

Lina rolled her eyes, clearly embarrassed, and released Rhiannon to hug her mother. "I am glad that you invited us to stay. It has been a long time."

The Duchess was dark haired and green eyed, but there the resemblance ended. She was tiny and petite, giving the impression of an expensively delicate porcelain doll. Her wealth of jet-black locks was liberally sprinkled with gray around the temples and a few lines had settled around her eyes, but her bones were sharp as knives beneath the firm skin of her face. This was a woman who would go on being astonishingly beautiful even after she'd reached great old age.

"Mother, pray allow me to present to you Rhiannon Moore. My partner, lover and soulmate. The woman I adore absolutely and utterly. My wife, spouse, co-mate and helpmeet, the other half of my heart." Lina was burning all her bridges at once, having a fairly good idea of how her mother would react. She decided to add one more stick of dynamite to this provoking statement. "We sleep in the same bed as well. Have you noticed our wedding rings? I hope you have made arrangements to
accommodate this fact."

If worse comes to worst, the coach is still here, she thought, waiting for the explosion of disapproval. There was more than one bone of contention between mother and daughter, but Lina's preference for the female sex was a subject that the Duchess preferred to pointedly ignore when she wasn't vilifying it at length. At least we have not unpacked yet.

The Duchess looked Rhiannon up and down, wrinkling her nose as if in thought. "How do you do, Miss... er, Moore, is it? Or shall I call you Mrs. St. Claire? How delightful to make your acquaintance at last." Her voice, while not exactly warm, was certainly several degrees away from frozen.

Lina almost fell over in astonishment. True, this was not exactly a welcome with open arms but! She wondered once more if her mother had gone mad. Or am I delusional myself?

Rhiannon rose valiantly to the occasion. "How do you do, Your Grace?" she said with a smile and a curtsey. "Please, call me by my Christian name, as it appears we are related."

If the proud Duchess was insulted by Rhiannon's presumption, she didn't show it, although her smile grew a trifle fixed. "Rhiannon... that is Welsh, is it not?" Without waiting for a reply, she came closer and offered her cheek, taking both of the girl's hands in her own.

The Duchess' palms were cool and dry; when Rhiannon politely pecked the proffered cheek, careful not to blot the sheen of pearl powder that overlaid the woman's skin, she noticed her perfume was strong, the heady odor of rose attar mixed with a strong musk that was nearly overpowering.

Dressed in soot-black crepe, the high bodice and full skirts glittering with jet beads and ebony fringe, a huge mourning ring weighing down the middle finger of her right hand, it was clear that Her Grace, the Duchess of Inishglen, Mary Caitlin Dinsmore, still grieved for her lost husband, dead these many years.

Perhaps that is why she wants to believe in spiritualism, Rhiannon thought compassionately. I know if that if Lina were gone... well, I would give anything to be close to her again, even if it was from beyond the grave.

The Duchess released Rhiannon and turned again to her daughter, the faint expression of distaste on her face fading into one of placid good will so quickly that Lina wondered if she'd imagined seeing it there at all. "Do come inside, Vangie dear, and bring this sweet child with you. It's so dreadfully cold today. I want to introduce you both to Madam Bahzanova, as she has agreed to join us for tea. A singular honor; Madam rarely indulges in such displays of material appetite, preferring to subsist on etheric vibrations. We should not keep her waiting."

Gathering up her billowing black skirts and bestowing faint smiles all around, the petite woman swept back up the path, leaving a surprised and puzzled Lina behind.

The butler opened the door for his mistress, summoned a pair of waiting footmen with a crook of his finger, and began supervising the removal of luggage from the carriage.

Lina's mouth closed with a click. She stalked over to the butler, taking each step as carefully as if she tread on a thin sheet of very brittle glass. "Grenville, has Her Grace been ill recently?" she asked, brows drawn together in worry. Rhiannon moved to her side and put an arm around her waist.

"No, my lady," Grenville replied. His face was deeply scored with lines and creases; bluish pouches beneath his eyes and the wobbling jowls that hung over his starched collar reinforced the sad impression of a basset hound. "Her Grace enjoys most excellent health. I have noticed a recent aversion to cold, necessitating fires in all the rooms despite clement weather. Perhaps a touch of moodiness. Nothing beyond what one might expect in a lady of a certain age."

"Can you tell me anything about this Madam Bahzanova? Mother is not exhibiting her usual behavior; in fact, I would venture to say that if I did not know better, I would swear the woman who greeted us is most emphatically not the one who gave me birth."

Grenville's melancholy expression took a downward turn. "I fear, my lady, that I am unable to assist you in this matter. Her Grace has not allowed the rest of the household any contact with the Madam since her arrival." His manner was respectful but stiff; Rhiannon sensed that Lina's questions were making him uncomfortable.

"What? Come now, Grenville... do you not remember the days when I would sneak into your pantry after lessons, to be regaled with weak tea, forbidden sweets and equally forbidden nuggets of belowstairs gossip? I thought we were friends, at least. Surely there is some mite of information you can offer," Lina said with a coaxing smile.

The butler swallowed, waved the footmen inside, and trained his gaze on the far horizon. He said formally, "My lady, I deeply regret that in the matter of Madam, I cannot assist you in the usual way." His emphasis of these words made Lina's eyes widen briefly. He went on, "If you and Miss Moore will follow me inside, I shall show you to your rooms. I am sure you wish to refresh yourselves after the long journey, and tea will be served promptly at four o'clock."

Rhiannon looked back towards Inishglen... and sucked in a shocked breath.

Standing in the doorway was the most grotesque creature she had ever seen. It could not be human; Rhiannon's first thought was that it must be some strange kind of ape. Less than four feet tall and distinctly crooked in its posture, it was clad in an unusual costume that was strongly reminiscent of the gilded Elizabethan age. Wide farthingale skirts of navy blue satin, heavily frogged in pearl studded brocade and flashing gold knots, were joined by a stiffly starched ruff of lace framing its simian
face. A small feathered cap was perched on top of its bulbous head. The arms seemed far too long for its body, and the glory of the antique dress was marred by a hump behind one shoulder.

The creature held a long walking stick in its hand - ebony topped by a cloudy sphere and wound about with ribbons, the staff was a good two feet taller than the one who bore it - and when the apparition opened its wide slash of a mouth and piped in cut-crystal English, "Good day, mistresses," Rhiannon felt suddenly sick.

It seemed that Inishglen harbored demons after all.

CHAPTER FOUR

"What the Devil is that?" Lina asked, leading Rhiannon towards the door.

Grenville stopped and gave the creature a small bow. "Allow me to present Madam's esteemed assistant, Her Highness the Royal Princess Annastasiia, widow of the Great Prince of Russia, Simeon Ivanovich." There was a trace of sarcasm in his voice but only someone who knew the butler well could have detected it. "Your Highness, may I present Lady Evangeline St. Claire, the Duchess' daughter, and her companion, Rhiannon Moore."

Rhiannon gaped at the hunchbacked dwarf. Well tutored in European history by her father, she recognized the names as belonging to 14th century Russian nobility. "Surely this can't be right! That would mean... oh!"

"It is my great pleasure to make the acquaintance of such vibrant beauties," Annastasiia said in  impeccable English. Her mild brown eyes were nearly hidden beneath overhanging brow ridges, adding to the simian impression. "My benefactress, Madam Bahzanova, will also be greatly pleased."

Lina nudged Rhiannon. "What is it, my dear?"

"If you are really the widow of Simeon Ivanovich, that would make you over five hundred years old," Rhiannon said flatly to the so-called Princess, ignoring her partner's question. "That's impossible!"

"Ah, has it been so long?" Annastasiia patted a stray curl into place and gave Rhiannon a wide smile. "One does tend to lose track of the years. After one reaches the age of three hundred or so, months and days fly past too swiftly to keep track!"

Lina cleared her throat and looked down at the dwarf. She had had enough of this ridiculous posturing. "I beg your pardon for interrupting your inventive recitation, but my companion and I are quite weary from our long journey. Perhaps we can continue our conversation at another time." Snatching Rhiannon's hand, the taller woman led her into Inishglen, brushing aside the dwarf in the doorway with brusque care.

Annastasiia's coarse, unsuppressed sniggers followed them inside.

The foyer was overwhelmingly grand. Black and white marble floors in a checkered pattern dazzled the eye, leading it to the grand staircase that wound its way sinuously to the upper floors; a huge ormolu chandelier hung from the ceiling like an ornate spider, the curled arms dripping with crystal drops and swags of cut-glass chain. Portraits took up much of the wall space from ceiling to floor; the castle ancestors seemed to judge Rhiannon with jaundiced eyes and sour expressions.

Why is it that the people in family portraits always look so terribly bad tempered? Rhiannon thought. No one ever smiles or laughs; they all look like they've just eaten bad partridge and are about to execute the cook. It's enough to give the casual viewer a raging case of dyspepsia herself!

"I have taken the liberty of assigning you and Miss Moore to the Perdita Suite," Grenville said expansively. "I have also assigned my niece Flora to act as your ladies maid. I hope these arrangements meet with your approval."

Lina nodded. "That will do nicely. Please give our excuses to my mother; Rhiannon and I require a few hours to freshen up before we are presentable to company. I trust dinner is still served at nine o'clock?"

"Yes, my lady." The butler hesitated. "Her Grace is expecting you and Miss Moore to attend tea within the hour."

"I fear we must disappoint. Kindly have trays sent up to our rooms, Grenville. That will be all." Without another word, Lina led the way up the staircase to the fourth floor.

The Perdita Suite was decorated in quiet greens and creams with a minimum of floral fuss. A shared bath connected the two rooms - a bedroom and a sitting/dressing area, not the separate bedrooms Rhiannon had anticipated. It seemed her status as Lina's lover was being discreetly acknowledged, and she wasn't sure if that fact made her feel relieved or more apprehensive. The big tester bed, a massive walnut monstrosity, was draped with tapestries and required a set of steps to climb inside.

Rhiannon frowned. "When will you be sending for Fyvie?" she asked. "I'm sure she's very lonely on the Princess Bride with no one but the engineer to play with."

Instead of answering immediately, Lina snatched off her hat and sent it skimming across the bedroom. "I am still not sure if we should stay or leave immediately," she fumed. "I do not like this, my dear. I do not like this at all!"

"What's wrong, love?" Rhiannon removed her own straw bonnet, smoothed the ribbons and placed it on top of the dresser. "The Duchess hasn't exactly welcomed me as a daughter but the meeting didn't go as badly as we feared."

"And that is precisely one of the oddities about this business that makes my skin crawl." Lina sat down on the chaise lounge and put up her feet. She looked very weary all of a sudden, as if some burden she carried had suddenly trebled in weight. "You do not know my mother. Thrusting our intimate relationship beneath her nose should have caused a dignified explosion and immediate dismissal. Is it possible that she has been drugged into complacency? Perhaps I should send for Fyvie after all;
the hound would make an excellent food taster."

"You wouldn't dare!" Rhiannon exclaimed. "If Fyvie was poisoned, it would break my heart and you know it."

"A small jest, my dear. I assure you that I would rather swallow arsenic myself than allow any harm to come to that great shaggy beast you so adore." Lina gave her partner a small smile. "Well, I admit myself flummoxed for the moment. We shall stay and see what clues present themselves."

Rhiannon gave her partner a wink. "By the way, my wolfhound isn't the only beast I adore."

Lina's smile grew wider and more brilliant. "Perhaps you would consent to delaying the inevitable for an hour or so, my dear? I happen to know that the door locks are uncommonly strong, the walls thick, and the bathtub wide enough to accommodate a pair... providing they are very close indeed."

Rhiannon tapped a finger against her teeth. Her turquoise blue eyes sparkled with mischief and affection. "Hmmm... I'm not sure, love. Are you sure we're that close?"

"O dearest, sweetest, loveliest and most desirable of women," Lina replied, rapidly rising from the chaise lounge and sweeping a squealing Rhiannon off her feet. "I am quite positive."

Sometime later, Flora arrived to help the women unpack and prepare for dinner. She did not resemble her uncle Grenville in the slightest; the maid was blonde, her figure angular rather than curved, and her movements quick, almost bird-like.

She didn't speak much, even when pressed; Lina's questions about the Duchess, Madam Bahzanova and Annastasiia were met with monosyllabic answers that provided no useful information whatsoever. Finally, Lina dismissed the girl, realizing that she had been intimidated or frightened into silence.

"And that tells me a great deal, my dear," Lina said when Flora had safely gone. "It is one thing to gain a servant's discretion by bribery, and quite another when threat has clearly been applied. Yes, something is rotten in Inishglen, and I would wager my fortune that this blasted medium has much to do with it."

Rhiannon slotted a pair of sparkling sapphire earrings through her earlobes before replying, "That could very well be, love. On the other hand, perhaps Flora is naturally shy or in awe. After all, you are the Duchess' daughter. "

"Bah!" Lina shook out the skirts of her claret velvet gown and surveyed herself in a cheval mirror, tweaking the lacy cuffs that fell over her hands. "I tell you that woman passing herself off as a medium is a blatant fraud and she has some kind of hold on my mother and the servants. Or do you believe in the existence of five hundred-year old Russian princesses?"

"Of course not!" Rhiannon smoothed her hair; the red-gold locks were arranged in coils that were piled high on her head, with a few stray curls allowed to hang on either side of her face to soften the look. "That poor deformed woman is obviously demented."

"Or cunning as a fox." Lina walked over to her petite partner and began to button up the back of her peacock blue dress. "The supposed princess is a heavy-handed piece of stagecraft, my dear. A misdirection intended to draw attention away from Madam Bahzanova."

Her emerald eyes met Rhiannon's in the mirror. "We must be discreet," Lina cautioned. "This Madam must know that we are skeptical, even hostile, to her plans. Until we have uncovered all the facts, my dear, we should play our cards closely."

"Do you really think the danger is so terrible?" Rhiannon frowned, worried; her lover reached out to smooth the line between her brows with a finger.

"To my mother, certainly. To us... I do not know." Lina hugged Rhiannon and kissed the top of her head. "Be watchful and cautious. We are dealing with the unknown, my dear, and even I cannot predict the outcome."

Rhiannon felt a chill run down her spine, and she shivered in dreadful anticipation.

CHAPTER FIVE

At dinner, an enormous bristling floral display obscured Rhiannon's view of her partner and made all conversation with Lina impossible. Princess Annastasiia was placed next to Lina, directly opposite Rhiannon, and all too visible across the expanse of tablecloth.

The hunchbacked dwarf was perched on a number of piled-up cushions; her legs kicked and dangled like a child's in a highchair. The Princess was dressed in another fantastic costume, still Elizabethan in style with ruff, puffed sleeves and wide pannier skirts, but the material used was black bombazine, which absorbed light rather than reflected it. She had also donned a hideously false, tightly curled red wig that was slipping over to on one side and looked in danger of tumbling into her plate any moment.

Good Lord! It looks as if our Princess has a dead poodle perched on her head! Rhiannon thought, strangling a chuckle when Annastasiia flashed her a gimlet-eyed glare.

The table was elaborately set, a feast of glittering crystal, shining silver, china, blazing candelabras and what seemed to be a veritable acre of pristine white cloth. White-wigged footmen in formal livery stood at attention around the walls, their knee breeches, stockings and red velvet coats lending an aristocratic air to the proceedings. When the first course of soup was served, Rhiannon cleared her throat and attempted some light conversation with her sole neighbor, the Duchess.

"Lina has told me that there are castle ruins near Inishglen. That must be fascinating."

The Duchess nodded to Grenville to pour the wine before replying. "It was called Inishowen. There are a few books in the library detailing the history of the place, although no doubt my daughter can supply you with all the information you might require." Her tone was neutral and she kept her eyes focused on her plate.

This was the most polite rebuff Rhiannon had ever received and she took the hint, allowing the fish and game courses to be completed before trying again. "Please forgive my curiosity, Your Grace, but how long have you been Madam Bahzanova's patron?"

A flicker of fear crossed the woman's face... or was it a trick of candlelight? Recovering in an instant, the Duchess smiled beatifically. "My dear Miss Moore, I am not the Madam's patron." Her voice was pitched to carry. "Indeed, the Madam has graciously consented to be my guide to the etheric regions. I am but her humble student, her privileged servant."

The footmen had finished spooning vinaigrette beans and chicken mayonnaise onto their plates before Rhiannon replied. It was obvious that Her Grace had meant her earlier words to be overheard by Annastasiia. In response, Rhiannon raised her voice as well. "I understand that the Madam has been successful in contacting the spirit of your late husband?"

"Oh, yes!" The Duchess suddenly became quite animated, making a broad gesture that nearly knocked over her wineglass. Her calm facade slipped entirely and her green eyes glittered with manic intensity. "The Madam has been most generous in sharing her gifts with me! Her wisdom is ineffable, I assure you. Perhaps the Madam will graciously consent to allowing you and Evie to attend the seance this evening...?"

She glanced nervously at Annastasiia, as if seeking consent. Rhiannon thought the Duchess' behavior was more than a little odd. She acts like someone who's been rigidly controlling herself for ages, but now the facade is beginning to crack under the strain. From what Lina's told me, her mother doesn't seem the frail type to dissolve into hysterics at the drop of a hat. I don't like this at all.

Annastasiia nodded once, the horrible red wig slipping another notch, and began to shovel food into her mouth with little decorum.

The Duchess smiled brilliantly but her hands were shaking so hard she nearly dropped her knife. She had touched very little of her dinner. "It really is too bad that you were unable to meet Madam this afternoon. She was quite disappointed. I have been boasting of my bluestocking daughter and her pretty companion for simply ages."

"I am sorry we weren't able to attend tea. Our journey was so exhausting and I'm afraid we weren't at all fit company."

"Well, no matter. It isn't as if I'll be put on the rack for Evie's failure, will I?" The Duchess laughed, a brittle giggle that threatened to spiral out of control. Annastasiia gave the woman a sharp look and the laughter ended with shocking abruptness.

Rhiannon frankly stared, her fork poised before her mouth.

After dabbing her temples with a napkin, the Duchess continued with forced conviviality, "I believe you and Evie will thoroughly enjoy the seance tonight. I have taken a great deal of comfort in knowing my poor, late husband is happy and content with the angels in Paradise. The enlightening messages he conveys to me from beyond have lifted my burden considerably. How wonderful it would be if the Madam was able to give you the same joy, Miss Moore."

Out of the corner of her eye, Rhiannon observed the Princess was paying particular attention to her conversation with Lina's mother. She replied, "I'm sure you know that my mother has been dead for years. I miss her dreadfully."

"Of course you do. Perhaps the Madam can contact her for you." The Duchess' gaze slewed around to Annastasiia and again the simian creature nodded. "Do tell me about your late mother, Miss Moore, if you think it would not distress you unduly. I find myself very curious about your antecedents."

Rhiannon knew precisely what these tactics were meant to accomplish. The Duchess wasn't the least bit interested in her background. She was acting under orders. Whatever details were revealed would undoubtedly appear in the seance as a way of making the manifestations seem genuine - a common tactic used by unscrupulous frauds, or so she'd learned from Lina. Accordingly, she decided to use this opportunity to her advantage and set a trap for the spiritualist who seemed to have a powerful hold on Inishglen and its occupants.

"Mother was tall and very beautiful. She passed away when I was very young - one of those terrible influenza epidemics - and I don't remember very much about her except that she was kind and always smelled of lavender." Rhiannon spun this tissue of lies with deliberate vagueness. "She wore white a great deal and was fond of flowers, particularly lilies."

Actually, her mother had been small, petite and fine boned, adored the color blue, and vastly preferred roses to lilies.

The Duchess patted her hand. "Your mother sounds like a very lovely woman. I am truly sorry for your loss." She paused and added, "Where does your father live, Miss Moore?" One of her hands strayed to her arm. She scratched absently, nails digging through the black satin sleeve.

"He died in another epidemic about five years ago." This was a lie as well. Rhiannon's father, a private tutor, had committed suicide following his beloved wife's death.

"Oh, you poor girl! How tragic, to lose both parents in such melancholy circumstances!" Suddenly noticing that she was scratching, the Duchess stopped. Despite the soft candlelight, she suddenly appeared old and very tired.

"Yes," Rhiannon answered, pitying the woman. "I am an only child and have no brothers or sisters to comfort me. Lina is my family now."

"Well, my poor dear child, I have such hopes that the Madam may be able to contact your loved ones on the other side." The Duchess gestured, a genteel napkin flutter that brought a footman scurrying to her side to pull out her chair. "Now we shall withdraw to the drawing room for coffee and dessert. You will find the Princess' tales of court life in medieval Russia quite a fascinating after-dinner entertainment, Miss Moore, I assure you. Afterwards, we will retire for an hour to refresh ourselves before the seance begins."

Rhiannon rose hastily and caught Lina's eye, giving her a private look that meant, we need to talk.

Her raven-haired partner nodded in silent reply.

CHAPTER SIX

After the necessary business of society in the drawing room - an interminable affair, punctuated by the Princess spinning blatant lies about court life in medieval Russia, with particular emphasis placed on her fictional romantic affairs - Rhiannon was at last released to seek solitude upstairs. She dared not say a word to Lina until they were in private.

Grenville was waiting at the staircase with a lit candelabra. It was late evening, just past eleven o'clock, and a shadowy gloom had settled over the castle. Fat candles speared on iron stands were scattered around the hallway, barely puncturing the velvety shadows that smothered Inishglen like a blanket. The butler's deeply creased face and loose jowls were lit from below, giving him an eerie appearance.

"My lady," he said to Lina with a nod, "you and your companion are expected in the the Gray Lady's sitting room in forty-five minutes. Shall I have one of the maids summon you at the appropriate time?"

"No, thank you," Lina said, taking the candelabra. "The Gray Lady's room, did you say? How peculiar. I thought that part of the castle was closed off after great-grandmother's death."

"Her Grace has reopened that wing, my lady," Grenville said stoically, "although Madam Bahzanova's renovations were confined solely to the sitting room in question... which is kept locked. Madam has the only key."

"I see." Lina put her free hand on her hip and stared at the butler with a speculative gleam in her eyes. She turned to go up the stairs, stopped, and asked casually over her shoulder, "Was there much structural work involved? Walls, ceilings, that sort of thing? Or was the Madam's work confined solely to furnishings and the like? I seem to recall that the west wing was in rather a state of disrepair."

"I cannot say, my lady." He stared straight ahead, unblinking. "The laborers were not locals. I believe they were Italian. The servants, particularly the gardeners, were not allowed near that part of the castle while work was being done. It was understood that the business at hand was intended as a surprise for Her Grace the Duchess."

Lina shrugged and smiled. "I suppose my curiosity will be rewarded shortly. Tell me, old friend... has the Gray Lady herself given the sign of approval?"

Despite the definite chill in the air, a bead of sweat dripped off the end of Grenville's nose. "I cannot say, my lady. Servant's gossip, coming from the overwrought imaginations of the lower classes - the boot boy and parlormaid in particular - can never be rewarded by attention from a sensible man."

"True, true. Well, we have dawdled long enough. Come along, my dear... let us not keep Mother and the Madam waiting." Lina led the way up the stairs, holding the candelabra high.

Once safely in their rooms with the door shut and locked, Lina began pulling off her evening gown, heedless of damage to the claret velvet. "Grenville is so clever, I am fit to burst with pride. In such an innocent conversation, he has managed to give me a wealth of information!"

Rhiannon wriggled out of her own dress, laying it carefully over the back of the chair to avoid the garment being crushed, and swiftly pulled on a loose gown of cream and aqua striped silk. "I have news as well, love," she said, buttoning the wide, upturned cuffs. "Do you want to tell first or shall I?"

"By all means, my dear, unburden yourself this instant." Clad only in petticoats and camisole, Lina leaned against the dresser and lit a cigarette, blowing a cloud of swirling smoke in the direction of the window. "I was able to overhear some portion of your conversation with my mother, as the Princess rarely stopped chewing long enough to grunt in acknowledgment of my overtures. I never knew you were such a skillful liar!"

Rhiannon blushed. "The Duchess was pumping me for details. I didn't think it wise to tell her the truth."

"Quite right, my dear! An excellent test for our so-called medium."

"Did you notice that Annastasiia was practically controlling Her Grace at dinner? Lina, your mother is terrified of that creature!"

"I think not. Rather, Mother is frightened of the puppet master behind the Princess. I refer to Madam Bahzanova, of course." She crushed out her cigarette in a porcelain dish and took a lavender gown from the wardrobe. Made in the unstructured aesthetic style of Liberty's silk, it featured a round lace collar, swags of ribbon trim on the full skirts, and most convenient of all - deep side pockets.

As she pulled on the loosely fitting dress, Lina continued, "Do you remember what I have told you of the art of stage illusion, my dear? The trickeries practiced in the name of legerdemain?"

Rhiannon put her jewels away in a leather box. "Magicians rely on misdirection to fool the audience into believing the impossible by directing their gaze away from the true business at hand. "

"Precisely. Keep that in mind and act accordingly, but with utmost discretion." Lina took a small key from the dresser drawer, pulled a squat steel container from underneath the bed, and opened it, withdrawing a small revolver.

"Oh! Do you really think that's necessary?" Rhiannon slipped a pair of comfortable slippers on her feet and made a face. "Are you planning on turning the seance into a wild west show?"

"Merely a precaution, in case matters take a turn for the worst." Lina loaded the revolver with five bullets and slid it into her pocket. "Now, before we attend the gathering below..."

"Yes, please. You were saying something about the butler passing you information?"

"Grenville is a true gem, my dear. Based on his discreet comments, I believe the sitting room in question has been altered to allow someone to assist the Madam in perpetrating her illusions whilst remaining virtually invisible. False walls or ceiling, sliding panels, secret passages, I know not what, all contrived by Italian workers imported for the purpose." Lina leaned her hip against the dresser and continued with a faraway look in her emerald eyes.

"The west wing of Inishglen has long been believed to be haunted by the spirit of an unfortunate bride from the time of Charles II. Her name was Marguerite; the legend tells us that she was very young, barely budded, and quite beautiful. On her wedding day, she disappeared during a game of hide-and-seek, and was never seen again. Foul play being suspected but never proved, the erstwhile bridegroom waited for an appropriate period before re-marrying. Marguerite's ghost, known as the Gray Lady, began appearing several months later, most often in the sitting room of the west wing, weeping and apparently lost."

Rhiannon shivered, the small hairs on the back of her neck struggling to rise. "How horrible!" she exclaimed. "Does anyone know what happened to poor Marguerite?"

"I fear not." Lina smiled faintly. "Speculation ran riot and a stablehand, William Journey, was suspected of terrible deeds but nothing came of it. At any rate, great-grandmother - who suffered from a nervous disposition - made it a condition of her will that the west wing be rendered inaccessible."

"So the Madam somehow persuaded your mother to allow her to make changes to the room. That's incredible! Surely Her Grace had to have been the least bit suspicious!"

"My mother is a strong willed woman. Whatever hold Bahzanova has over her, it must be cursed strong!. Since the workers presumably spoke no English and had no local ties, their business has been kept secret for what can only be a dastardly purpose. I do not like this, my dear... I do not like it at all!"

Rhiannon narrowed her eyes in thought. "What was it that Grenville said about the Gray Lady?"

"He has as much admitted that two of the servants have seen her. Which makes me wonder..."

"You think Marguerite's spirit disapproves and is making herself known?"

Lina shook her head. "I must wonder if this phenomena is phantom or flesh. There can be more than other explanations for a haunting than supernatural means."

"Madam's helper, you mean!"

"Precisely, my dear. What better way to ensure anonymity and little risk of discovery than to impersonate a well-known spirit? Servants would flee from the merest whisper of your dusty draperies. It would not be the first time that an unscrupulous person has used superstition and fear to their advantage."

"Hurry and put your slippers on, love. It's nearly midnight." Rhiannon grabbed a fringed shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders. "What should I do if I spot any false play?"

"Say nothing. Be discreet. Stay watchful and alert, but do not reveal our hand." Lina shoved her feet into crewel-worked house slippers and patted her pocket, feeling the reassuring weight of the revolver. "I do not want to risk a confrontation with the medium just yet, not until we have ascertained all the facts in the case."

"And your mother? What about her? She's absolutely terrified and it's beginning to show. She was nearly hysterical at dinner, poor woman."

Lina sighed. "I believe that when we have exposed Bahzanova and company, Mother will revert to her usual self. Expect glowing coals of ingratitude and disdain to be heaped upon our heads when this affair is concluded. Expect scanty thanks and studied insults. The Duchess is the most prideful, spiteful and selfish woman on earth. It will not take her long to get over her fright and begin to spout acid instead of honey. Despite the fine trappings, my mother is a true bitch at heart."

"That's awful! How can you say that?!" Rhiannon was shocked.

"I can say these things because I am her daughter, my dear," Lina replied mournfully. "I am her daughter."

The west wing was comprised of a long hallway, leaded windows on one side, closed doors on the other. Bronze sconces in the shape of eagle claws were fixed to the walls; candles burned fitfully, flames guttering in the constant breeze that whistled through cracks in the plaster and brick.

Rhiannon clutched her shawl and followed the Duchess, taking heart from Lina's solid presence directly behind. Their soft shoes made scarcely a sound on the black and white marble tiles. A few scattered paintings of long dead ancestors stared down from gilt frames that were slowly turning to dust; she suppressed a shudder and walked a little faster to avoid their scornful stares.

The Gray Lady room was located at the extreme end of the hallway. Coming inside, Rhiannon was immediately struck by the lavishness of the decor, bordering almost on the absurd. The walls were not painted or papered but hung with masses of rich red velvet that puddled on the floor like congealed blood. Antique Persian and Turkish carpets lay thickly underfoot, muffling all sound. The coffered ceiling, framed in dark timbers, was painted a flat dark blue that made it seem much lower; each inset square was decorated with vaguely occult signs and pentagrams.

The few items of furniture - chairs, candle stands, a small table shoved to one side of the room - were so thickly gilded as to appear solid gold. Against a wall stood a tall, mahogany box that resembled a confessional; it was covered with carvings of leering satyrs, prancing nymphs, grimacing demons and other gruesome figure, some picked out in silver, copper or glass beads. A twisted silver stand held a huge clear quartz ball, the size of a child's head. A rectangular table in the center of the room was nearly hidden beneath a long fringed cloth of Bohemian embroidery and lace.

Rhiannon had the impression of being trapped in a candy box, smothered in riches, suffocating under a great, gilded weight of extravagance.

At one end of the rectangular table sat an extraordinary figure. This must be Madam Bahzanova, Rhiannon thought, studying the medium from beneath her lashes.

The woman was huddled in a Bath chair, muffled in so many layers of shawls, from cheap woolens to expensive China silks, that she resembled an untidy heap of laundry. Blue spectacles covered her eyes; one side of her face was marred by a large port wine stain that spread over cheek, brow and chin. A hairy mole was nestled against her nose; her teeth were yellow as butter, spaced widely apart, and seemed far too large for her mouth. Her hair, a muddy shade of brown and patently false, was pulled to the back of her neck and the heavy bun skewered by a jeweled hairpin.

Much to her embarrassment, Rhiannon couldn't tear her gaze away from the dark stain that disfigured the medium's face.

Lina marched up to Bahzanova and stared down at her. "How do you do?" she asked coolly. "I am Lady Evangeline St. Claire. No doubt you have heard of me."

"Good evening," the woman said, tilting her face up and smiling beatifically. "Yes, your mother and I have talked about you many times." She spoke with a thick Russian accent, sounding as if she was gargling a mouthful of potatoes. "It is good you have come. I am pleased."

The Duchess hurried over. "My dear Madam," she said humbly, bending her knee in a deep curtsey that made Lina's lip curl. "You know my daughter is an unbeliever. I hope this will not disturb the vibrations tonight..."

"Bah!" Bahzanova slashed a hand through the air. "Only the weak need fear an unbeliever. My power is strong enough to overcome." She glanced around and spotted Rhiannon. "Ah, come closer, child! Do not fear! The dead are all around us. Your dear mother and father, they are here as well. We shall open the way for them, yes?"

Princess Annastasiia stepped out of the carved confessional box. She had changed her dinner costume for a loose satin robe of shining black, belted with a scarlet cord. A stiff lace ruff framed her simian face. "It is time, mistress," she intoned theatrically. "The midnight bell doth toll."

The Duchess rose from her curtsey. "Shall we take our places, dear Madam?" Her face was pale and although the room was cool, even chilly, her cheeks and brow shone with sweat. She shivered nonetheless, and canted an arm behind her back to scratch.

"Da." Bahzanova looked up at Lina again. "And you, little one... what do you seek?"

Lina's face was expressionless. "The truth," she replied bluntly.

"Oh, pet, you really must keep an open mind," the Duchess said with a worried frown. "Please forgive my Vangie, dear Madam. She is so stubborn, so set in her little ways..."

"An open mind is a good thing," Bahzanova said, tilting her head to one side and making a show of examining Lina's tall frame minutely. "Remember, many scientific processes, well-understood today, were once thought to be a product of demonic interference. Alchemists were considered sorcerers and burned at the stake."

"So were witches."

"Vangie!" The Duchess was clearly horrified. She stopped scratching and continued, "Please, Madam, I beg your forgiveness on behalf of my daughter. If I had known she would be so insulting..."

Bahzanova laughed, a surprisingly deep and resonant sound. "Ah, gracious lady, perhaps we will give your stubborn child a glimpse of God's work this night, yes? Even a closed mind may be opened if the merciful Father wills it. Now, all will take their places, thus and thus, and so we shall begin."

The seating arrangement positioned Rhiannon and Lina on opposite sides of the table, with the medium on one end, her dwarf assistant and the Duchess sitting side by side on the other. Everyone was instructed to lay their hands on top of the cloth, palms down, fingers spread apart but not touching. A single candle in a jade dish burned in the exact center of the table, adding a small spark to the mellow golden light that filled the room but failed to pierce the shadows that lurked in every corner.

"Now it begins," Bahzanova hissed through her teeth, throwing her head back with a groan.

Rhiannon felt simultaneously chilled and excited. She looked across the table at Lina, who winked in response.

Then the other candles in the room blew out one by one, as though extinguished by an invisible breath, and the seance had truly begun.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The room was almost completely enveloped in darkness; only a lone candle on the tabletop shed any light at all, and that was concentrated in a small circle centered around the sitters' themselves. It did not penetrate farther. Rhiannon's nerves were wire taut, almost buzzing, as she literally sat on the edge of her seat and waited for what was to come.

The medium was moaning, tossing her head back and forth, gabbling incomprehensibly in the throes of what appeared to be a violent trance. Once, when Bahzanova paused to suck in a deep, indrawn breath, Rhiannon thought she heard a faint scraping noise, just on the edge of perception, coming from overhead. At the same time, the table jerked upwards, rearing like an unschooled pony, startling her and breaking her concentration.

Rhiannon glanced through her lashes; both Madam and Princess Annastasiia had their hands clearly visible on the lacy cloth, palms down, fingers spread apart. They could not be causing the table to bump up and down - or so it seemed.

Remembering the stealthy, scraping noise she had heard before, Rhiannon sneaked a quick look at the ceiling. Although entirely swathed in impenetrable blackness, was there a perfectly square section that seemed lighter somehow, as though the tiniest shred of grayish light was peering through? She was not able to continue her observation uninterrupted, however. The table suddenly shot upwards, rising so far that her arms were stretched above her head, although the long cloth kept her from seeing underneath, and just as quickly fetched back down again with a thump that made her hands tingle.

Bahzanova gasped and shook. "Give us a sign!" she called in her accented English. "I know you are here, travelers from beyond the veil! Yes, yes... show yourselves and give us a sign!"

A trumpet, glowing with an unearthly greenish light, appeared overhead and began whirling around and around in a dizzying pattern, although it never dipped beyond the darkness above the table. A second luminous instrument appeared - a violin - and then a madly jingling tambourine swooped and twirled energetically.

A serious of knocks sounded loudly; Rhiannon could feel the vibrations through the table and took her eyes away from the flying instruments for a second. When she lifted her gaze once more, they had vanished as quickly as they had appeared. More strong raps reverberated and the medium cried, "Who is here? Who has braved the journey to our physical plane?"

The strawberry blonde nearly jumped out of her skin when a woman's voice replied softly, calling her name, "Rhiannon, Rhiannon, Rhiannon..."

The triumphant expression on Bahzanova's face was unmistakable. "Is that the mother of this dear child? Is this the loved one who passed over many years ago?"

An almost overpowering, sickly sweet scent of lilies bloomed in the air, making Rhiannon feel slightly queasy. The strange, whispery voice, very hollow as if the owner was speaking from the bottom of a well, sounded again. "Yes." It seemed to come from everywhere at once. "Oh, yes. My darling baby girl. I have missed you so. Do you remember your mother, dearest? Do you remember me?"

Rhiannon's mouth was so dry she had to swallow several times before she could answer. She knew it had to be a trick - the stench of lilies was very revealing - but for one second, she found herself desperately wanting to believe. "Yes," she replied softly, then more loudly, "Yes, mother. I am here. I remember you."

Lina nodded at her imperceptibly, trying to give encouragement and support.

A tinkling melody began to play, a common lullaby sounding as if it were being played on crystal chimes. The woman's voice continued, "I am very happy here, dearest, very happy with the angels. I am at peace."

Despite her suspicion that she was being manipulated in the most heartless manner possible, Rhiannon felt tears well up and she struggled to control her emotions. "I miss you, mother. I miss you so much."

"Do not mourn me, darling. Do not grieve. I will always be with you. Always..." The voice faded, as did the melody, and the Madam Bahzanova sighed.

"Annastasiia, take me to the spirit cabinet," the medium commanded. "It is very dangerous to cross the veil, but I will attempt an etheric manifestation."

The dwarf Princess slid out of her seat, went to Bahzanova and grasped the handles of the Bath chair. "For the sake of the Madam's sanity and health, do not attempt to touch or interfere with the entity in any way. Such rashness can have dire consequences. Do not leave the safety of the circle for any reason at all," she commanded.

Rhiannon asked, "Is it so very dangerous?"

"Yes, Miss Moore," the Duchess answered in a slow, dull voice. "The Earl of Kinslainne's wife, Jessica, had a most distressing accident when she attempted to snatch the spirit of her departed boy, Edward. She was overwrought and I fear the incident proved too much for her to bear. Her heart failed at this very table."

"Indeed, Mother," Lina said casually. "When did this terrible accident occur?"

"Only a fortnight ago." The Duchess watched the medium being wheeled into the spirit cabinet and added quietly, "It is indeed fortunate that other friends whom I have urged to participate in Madam's activities have not endangered themselves that way."

"Dare I assume that your intimates have been suitably impressed by the Madam's powers?"

"Oh, yes. Lord Hugh Fitzgerald, Lady Dorcester, Baroness DeLisle... even the Marquis of Ramsbrook has been exceptionally generous in his praise."

Rhiannon listened to this inter-play between mother and daughter curiously. There was an underlying meaning to the seemingly unimportant exchange. She assumed that all the personages named by the Duchess had also attended seances, probably in this very room. But how did Bahzanova benefit from her game?

As Annastasiia drew a curtain across the front of the cabinet and rejoined them at the table, Lina whispered, "How generous, Mother?"

The Duchess choked out, "Five thousand pounds," and covered her reply with a coughing fit. Annastasiia clambered back into her chair and helpfully pounded the woman on her back until the Duchess waved a handkerchief, catching her breath with a sob.

Rhiannon's eyebrows shot to her hairline. Five thousand pounds? A pretty fortune by anyone's standards!

As soon as the coughing fit had ceased, Annastasiia wrinkled her simian face and said, "I remind you all again - do not attempt physical contact with the etheric manifestation when it appears. Remain in your seats at all times. No matter what you see or hear, no matter how distressed you may become, do not disturb Madam in any way. Her life depends upon your obedience."

She closed her eyes and started to sing a hymn very softly. The Duchess took her hand, motioning for the other two to follow suit. Lina clasped her partner's fingers, squeezing slightly. Rhiannon was startled when the tinkling, crystalline melody she had heard before began to play, the notes apparently drifting in from nowhere. Suddenly, the candle blew out, leaving them in total darkness.

Annastasiia cried, "The spirit comes! I feel it! Prepare yourself for wonders!"

A tall, thin figure exited the cabinet, swathed in a blur of luminous draperies from head to toe. It was impossible to tell if it was male or female. Rhiannon jumped, gasping, and felt Lina squeeze her fingers even harder.

"Who are you?" Lina asked loudly.

"In life, I was Sir Edward Leigh, Duke of Inishglen. Your father," the spirit answered in a hollow voice. There was a distinct smell of pipe smoke that grew stronger. "I dwell in Heaven now, surrounded by angelic beings and light. Oh, my poor doubting daughter... will you not now believe?"

"Father..." Lina sounded dubious. "How do I know you speak the truth?"

"Do you remember when you were six years old, and broke your arm falling from an apple tree? I was there, my darling. I read your favorite stories. I brought you jellies and cakes. I soothed your fevered brow. Do you not know me?"

The Duchess let out a strangled sob, quickly silenced.

"Yes, I remember the injury," Lina replied.

Rhiannon gritted her teeth and clutched her partner's hand convulsively. A warm breath blew on the side of her face. Rhiannon turned in that direction but could see nothing in the darkness.

The dully glowing spirit came a few steps closer. Its face was difficult to make out behind layered veils. "Your first pony was named Lancelot. I bought it for you when you were five. Such a sweet little creature. You loved him dearly."

Lina let out a trembling sigh. "I do not believe that souls can return from the dead." Her tone was wavering, uncertain. "This is pure poppycock. I will not stand for it anymore."

"Do you trust your own eyes?" Sir Edward's ghost turned and opened the door of the cabinet. A candle stub flickered within. By this feeble light, everyone could see the form of Madam Bahzanova, slumped in her Bath chair. He closed the door, plunging the room back into darkness. "Do you now believe, daughter?"

"No!"

Rhiannon blinked, momentarily dazzled. She had glimpsed the medium, but had also taken the opportunity to flash a glance at the other occupants around the table. Her immediate impression was that Lina appeared to be under a hideous strain. The Duchess looked frightened. And Annastasiia... well, an obscene kind of gloating is the way I'd describe her expression.

"I must depart now, but I urge you to listen to Madam Bahzanova. She has only your best interests at heart." Sir Edward became stern. "Mary Caitlin," he said to the Duchess, "you also must trust in the Madam and continue your generosity towards her. She will take good care of you, my darling wife."

"Yes, Edward," the Duchess answered thinly.

With a dramatic flourish, the spirit withdrew back into the cabinet. The eerie music stopped. Rhiannon waited in the darkness for what seemed an eternity before a lucifer match scratched, and Annastasiia re-lit the candle on the table. "I must see to Madam," she said, dropping down out of her chair. After a few moments, she wheeled Madam Bahzanova out of the cabinet.

The medium appeared a bit disoriented. "Was the manifestation successful?" she asked.

"It was," Annastasiia replied. "Sir Edward Leigh appeared, although Lady Evangeline is reluctant to admit the fact."

Madam Bahzanova focused her eyes on Lina. A shaft of light fell across her face, illuminating the grotesque port wine stain and throwing the rest of her features into shadow. "You see, yet you do not believe!" A hand covered in a knit glove banged the armrest of her chair. "Foolish girl! The spirits do not have infinite patience. You put yourself at risk. Nay, you put your own life and the life of your companion in the most terrible danger!"

"I do not respond kindly to threats." Lina rose slowly, until she towered above the chair-bound medium.

"You mistake me, my child. I have only the utmost concern for your welfare. It is well known that angry spirits can wreck great havoc."

Lina snorted. "Are you suggesting my own father would do me harm?"

"Not at all. However, when one opens a door, who knows what uninvited guests may come inside?"

The two glared at each other, Lina's jaw was thrust out stubbornly. Finally, Rhiannon broke the tension. "I'm feeling a little unwell," she said, pressing a hand to her forehead. This was not far from the truth. "If we might be excused, I'd like to lay down."

"I shall order you a brandy," the Duchess said hastily, also rising in a rustling of ebony satin. "Vangie, do take poor Miss Moore to her room. It has been a trying evening for all of us." She was trembling; spasms rippled up and down her frame. Sweat stood out on her brow. "I will attend to Madam Bahzanova."

Lina broke off her confrontation with the medium, turning first to Rhiannon, then to her mother. "Are you well?" she asked

"There is nothing wrong with Her Grace that a nice rest won't cure," Annastasiia said, before the Duchess could answer. "I suggest we all retire for the evening. Good night, my lady. Pleasant dreams, Miss Moore."

The unpleasant way the dwarvish woman said 'pleasant dreams' made Rhiannon shiver slightly.

"Very well, mother. If you are certain that you do not need..." Lina began, but the Duchess interrupted her.

"For God's sake, Vangie!" she cried, pressing both hands to her abdomen and covering a wince. At her daughter's astonished stare, she added more softly, "I'm fine. I apologize for shouting. My nerves are a trifle overwrought." She essayed an artificial smile. "Good night, darlings."

Lina opened her mouth, closed it, and offered an arm to Rhiannon. "Good night, ladies."

She escorted her partner out of the room. It was not until they were away from the west wing, up the staircase, and in the Perdita bedchamber that the peer spoke again. "How did you find the seance, my dear?"

"Unnerving." Rhiannon began tearing off her gown. "Horrible. I feel as if I need a bath to get clean. Or perhaps a good cry." She stopped what she was doing. "I knew it was a fraud, but still..."

"I know." Lina enveloped the smaller woman in an embrace. There was a long silence before she continued, "Rational thought and logic aside, all of us want to believe, even if we never admit it. When a loved one dies, it leaves a hole in our hearts that can never be filled again. Madam Bahzanova preys on that vulnerability."

Rhiannon pressed her face into Lina's bosom. "I miss my mother," she said in a very small voice.

"I miss my father, dearest. Although when he was alive, he was infinitely more concerned with politics and social reform than his children." She kissed the top of her lover's head and held her closer. "Somehow, I doubt even death could alter his obsession. I imagine him in Heaven, giving speeches to St. Peter and the assembled saints, deploring conditions in Purgatory."

"I saw something..." Rhiannon wanted to change the subject. She described the ceiling in the seance room, and how she'd felt there was an opening there. "I can't be entirely certain what I witnessed, but it seemed that way to me."

"Remember the alterations that must have been made," Lina mused. "Manipulation of objects via a telescoping rod, used by a secret accomplice. A common trick, an illusion meant to convince us that spiritual power can make musical instruments fly."

"The table tilting? Both Madam Bahzanova and Princess Annastasiia had their hands in plain sight."

"But not their feet. Nor, I would imagine, the flat pieces of wood or metal they had up their sleeves." Lina released her partner, picking up a shoehorn. "A little short, but it will do for the purposes of demonstration." She thrust the short end of the horn up her sleeve, and laid her hands on a nearby table. The projecting bit shoehorn was wedged underneath the edge. When she raised her arms, the table followed, albeit a bit wobbly. "Simple enough if there are two working in concert. I did not fail to notice how the seance table was covered in an oversized cloth for further concealment."

"And that eerie music... a musical box played by an accomplice." Rhiannon reached for a silk robe and put it on, cinching the belt around her waist. "But what about the breath I felt? I'd swear there was no one near me."

"Hmph." Lina's black brows knitted together in a frown. "Obviously our accomplice."

"Who was also playing the part of your father's ghost at the time. We both saw Madam Bahzanova in her chair, sitting in the spirit cabinet."

"Did we?" Lina's cryptic comment was interrupted by a knock on the door. She opened it, allowing Grenville to enter. The butler was carrying a tray.

"Your brandy, Miss Moore. And I took the liberty of bringing a second for your ladyship." His normally haggard features seemed more woeful than ever. He put the tray down on a console table, hesitating.

Lina came to his side, using the crystal gasogene he had brought to add a splash of soda water to her glass. "What is it, man?"

"Your mother called me into the west wing, my lady." He looked at Lina, a haunted expression in his eyes. "She is... unwell."

"Should we call a doctor?" Rhiannon asked, joining them.

"I do not think that would be prudent, Miss Moore. Her Grace has specifically forbidden physicians." He squared his shoulders. "I apologize for the intrusion, as well as the impertinence, my lady. I should not have spoken out of turn. With your permission, I shall bid you both good-night."

Lina glanced at him keenly, but the man stared back calmly, having clearly decided to say no more. ""Very well, Grenville," she said. "Good-night."

The butler left, closing the door gently behind him.

"He looks like he's seen a ghost," Rhiannon commented.

Lina took a sip of her brandy-and-soda. "Perhaps he has, my dear. Perhaps he has."

CHAPTER EIGHT

The next morning, Rhiannon and Lina went down for breakfast around nine o'clock. They were both surprised to find the sideboard bare. There was no sign of servants. The house was too quiet, almost as if it had been deserted.

"Let us repair to the kitchen, my dear," Lina said. "Something is afoot."

The partners found Cook sitting at the kitchen table, drinking sherry straight from the bottle. When she saw Lina, the plump woman said sadly, "It's Mr. Grenville, my lady. The boot boy come across 'im this morning, cold as a herring in his pantry. Apoplexy, Dr. Whitstable says. Well, I know what I seen last night. 'Twas the Gray Lady that took 'im."

"Oh, the poor man," Rhiannon said, putting a sympathetic arm around her partner's waist. My poor darling, she thought. This must be a terrible shock.

"Did you see the Gray Lady yesterday evening?" Lina asked with an odd intensity. She did not appear to be saddened by the news, but angered. "At what time? Where?"

Cook took another swig from the sherry bottle. "I've given my notice," she said, ignoring the peer's questions. "I won't work in an haunted 'ouse. Her Grace has taken to 'er bed and left the two of them in charge. Hah! I won't be ordered about by foreign trash, either. I'm well out of it."

The grinding of Lina's teeth was audible. Shaking off Rhiannon, she grabbed Cook by her meaty arm. "Damn your notice!" she cried. A vein throbbed in her forehead, and her cheeks were flushed. Her emerald eyes flashed fire. "Answer me, or by God, I will wring it out of you!"

"In the kitchen last night," the terrified woman said, dropping the sherry bottle. It shattered on the flagstone floor. The pungent aroma of spilled alcohol filled the air. "She was here, I tell you. Walkin' plain as you please in her veils. 'Round about midnight, I should think."

"What did you do?" Lina ground her fingers into Cook's flesh, deep enough to bruise.

"I went to bed, it being too late to summon the vicar. I'm a God-fearing Christian, my lady." The woman jerked her arm out of Lina's grasp and attempted to regain her dignity. "What would you 'ave me do? There's been tales of the Gray Lady afore. I just didn't expect 'er in my kitchen. If she wants to be here, thought I, then I'll leave 'er to it. I'll have no truck with them meddlin' spirits. T'ain't good for the soul."

Rhiannon asked, "Where is Dr. Whitstable?" She cast a worried glance at Lina, ready to intervene. She had rarely seen her lover so angry before.

"Gone back to village, I should think, and took Mr. Grenville with him. As for me, I'm for London." Cook got ponderously to her feet, avoiding broken glass. "My sister's in service there. Good day to your ladyship. Her Grace knows my address." She left the kitchen in a dignified waddle, her nose thrust into the air.

"Damnation!" Lina balled up a fist and smacked her other hand with it. "I will not allow her to get away with murder."

"Are you certain it was murder, love? The doctor did say apoplexy."

"Dr. Whitstable was practicing in Inishaye village when I was born," Lina answered. "He is an honest man, but I would not expect him to be capable of noticing subtleties. I must examine Grenville's body myself."

Rhiannon took her hand, and kissed the fingertips. "Is that wise? You were fond of Grenville, and you've already had one shock today. Please don't add to it."

"My dear, it is true that I have great affection for my family's butler. He was a friend of my lonely youth. Although he never overstepped the proprieties between servant and master, Grenville could be counted upon to give advice, cheerful stories, a cup of milky tea, a sympathetic ear, and occasional pocket money when required. I owe it to him to uncover the truth."

"I know better than to argue when you're like this." Rhiannon sighed. "Is this connected to last night's events? The seance, the threats..."

"I do not know, but I am determined to find out. I shall begin with the butler's pantry. Perhaps a clue has survived the trampling feet of curious by-passers and elderly physicians."

"Actually, you'll begin by having some tea and toast in a few minutes. And you'll take a tray to your mother, who is probably in a state of nervous collapse. In my experience, highly-strung ladies don't take kindly to losing both butler and cook in the same day." Rhiannon found an apron, tying it on over her dark green dress. "I'll start by putting the kettle on, and sweeping up this mess of broken glass before someone steps in it."

"Thank you, my dear." Lina went to the pantry door, which was at one side of the kitchen. "My examination will not take too long."

She went inside, experiencing a nostalgic pang. The interior of the pantry - a cramped space made even smaller by a small table and comfortable chair - had not changed much in the years since she'd left Inishglen. A can of silver polish and rags stood on a shelf, accompanied by a box of cigarettes, matches, and empty laudanum bottles. Dog-eared novels and yellowing magazines were stacked neatly in a corner. The family plate was stored in a big iron safe beneath the shelf. This was Grenville's inner sanctum. Entering it took her straight back to childhood.

I spent many hours in this place, Lina thought. A distant mother, a distracted father... nannies and governesses and tutors determined to make me into a proper young lady. I took refuge in books, study, and a kindly man who pitied the lonely girl.

Her lips tightened. She glanced around, seeking anything out of place. The chair was pushed away from the table, which sported a damp stain. Closer examination and a cautious sniff made Lina mutter, "He vomited before dying. Poison, perhaps?" She prowled around the tiny space, getting on hands and knees to peer into corners. At last, she got up, dusting her knees off.

"Any luck?" Rhiannon called from the kitchen.

"Not as yet," Lina replied. As she turned her head, she caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of her eye. On the inner doorframe was a smear of some whitish substance. She touched it with a finger, then touched her fingertip to her tongue. Lina screwed up her face at the bitter taste.

"Tea's on the way, so is toast... do you want marmalade to go with it?" Rhiannon came to the door. "What on earth are you doing?"

"Ingesting paint, my dear." Lina cupped her hands around the smear. It glowed faintly. "Luminous paint, at that." There were also a few threads of muslin or linen caught in the wood.

"The Gray Lady has more substance than ectoplasm. You suspected as much."

"Now I have verification of my hypothesis." Lina permitted herself a small smile, which quickly turned into a frown. "Sitting in that chair, he would have had his back to the door. Easy enough prey for a silent assassin." She dusted off her palms. "My dear, as soon as we have broken our fast, we will be making haste to the village, Inishaye. I have a special task which only you can perform."

"What's that?"

"Fetching Fyvie from the train. We will need her particular services tonight... when we hunt a killer in spectre's clothing."

Lina took a tray up to her mother's bedroom. Balancing it on one palm, she rapped her knuckles gently against the door. "Mother? I have a bite of breakfast for you." A yapping chorus was her only reply. Letting herself in, Lina was surprised to find the room gloomy, the curtains still closed.

A half-dozen curly-tailed pugs leaped from the bed. The little dogs were panting, yipping, and jumping around her feet. "Have you had your morning constitutional?" Lina asked, trying to navigate the mob without stepping on anyone or falling on her face.

"Come here," the Duchess said. It was unclear at first whether she was speaking to the pugs or to her daughter. Nevertheless, the dogs made a concerted dash back to the bed. Their bulging eyes gleamed as they lay, tongues lolling, on the satin coverlet. "Never mind, Vangie. My maid has already walked them around the grounds."

"There is tea, toast and a soft-boiled egg," Lina said, putting the tray down. She went to the windows, drawing the bronze curtains briskly. Sunlight flooded the room. "I assume you are au courant regarding Cook's notice."

"Yes, and it's a great pity. Her consommé was excellent, although her hollandaise sauce tended to curdle." The Duchess' voice was weak, filled with exhaustion. "I shall have to find a replacement as soon as possible."

Lina turned to regard her mother. The woman lay in a huge oak bed, a doll dwarfed by her surroundings. She was pale, her complexion washed out and sickly.  "You should eat," Lina said, crossing her arms over her chest. Alone in her mother's company for the first time in many years, she felt strangely awkward and nervous. "You have grown quite thin since I was last at Inishglen."

"I have such a small appetite these days." The Duchess winced. "Would you be so kind as to close the curtains? This brightness is somewhat painful."

Lina did as she was bid. "I have business in Inishaye this morning. Shall I see if a new cook is available? On a temporary basis, of course."

"Yes, Vangie. Do as you please."

"Mother... is there anything amiss?" Lina walked to the side of the bed. From this distance, even in the gloom, she could see that her mother's pupils were mere pinpoints. Nor did she miss the scabby wounds and bruises concentrated on the woman's soft inner arm. "Are you ill?"

The Duchess yanked down the sleeve of her lace robe. "Not at all, Vangie dearest. I wouldn't want to keep you from... whatever it is you're doing today. I'll be fine." She pulled a pug into her lap, stroking it absently. "Do go on. Would you ask Grenville to bring me a whisky and soda? It's early, but I feel in need of a restorative."

Lina couldn't believe her ears. "Did no one tell you?" She sought a way to break the news gently, but her mind was a blank. Finally, she said as gently as possible, "Grenville died last night. Dr. Whitstable's diagnosis was apoplexy."

"Oh! Oh, yes." The Duchess accidentally pinched the pug in her agitation. At the creature's yelp, she pushed it away. "Don't look at me like that, Vangie. Good Lord, is it any wonder I'm perturbed, with the dreadful commotion in this house? I can scarcely avoid complete distraction. If I didn't know better, I'd swear you were conspiring to drive me mad." She stopped, out of breath. After a moment, she said huskily, "Go tell Madam Bahzanova that I need my medicine. Her room is down the hall. I beg you, Vangie, be polite."

Lina had seen enough. She nodded brusquely, not trusting herself to speak aloud. Rage, sorrow, horror and profound fury struggled inside her mind. Once she was clear of her mother's bedroom, she marched to Madam's chamber. "Her Grace is in need of medicine," she said loudly. "Would you be so kind as to attend to it at once?" Receiving an affirmative answer - though muffled by the door - Lina went back downstairs where Rhiannon was waiting.

"My dear, I am not fit company at the moment," Lina snapped, avoiding her lover's eyes. "I must think. Let us go to Inishaye immediately. I will have the driver drop you off at the railroad yard, and we can meet later in town."

Rhiannon nodded, not at all offended. She knew Lina's moods very well indeed. If they had been at home, the dark-haired women would have been confined to her study, smoking cigarettes and brooding. She usually fell into this sort of funk when contemplating a particularly difficult case. It cannot be easy, when the investigation involves family. Rhiannon remembered her aunt's death, and how difficult that had been.

Accordingly, she did not argue when Lina impatiently helped her into her coat and whisked her outside to the waiting carriage. On the drive to Inishaye, they were mostly silent. Lina stared out of the window, emerald gaze flat, directed inward. When the carriage reached the railyard, she opened her mouth just long enough to say, "There is a small tea room beside the post office. I will meet you there as soon as I have concluded my business."

Rhiannon touched her partner's cheek. "Be careful, love." She got out with the driver's assistance, and stood watching until the carriage disappeared from sight.

Having fetched Fyvie from their private car (the wolfhound had been well looked after by station employees - Rhiannon made sure to tip them generously), she walked the dog towards Inishaye. The village was very pretty and retained much of its old-fashioned charm, sporting Tudor-style beamed buildings with thatched roofs. Rhiannon held Fyvie's leash in her gloved hand as she paused here and there, glancing into shop windows. The huge shaggy beast garnered a few stares, but Fyvie behaved herself beautifully. Once, when an obviously drunken man approached her mistress, Fyvie yawned at him, her narrow muzzle split in half to display razor-sharp fangs. He quickly stumbled elsewhere.

Rhiannon bought a posy of rosebuds from a street merchant, then went into a goldsmith's shop, emerging with two packages in a short time. She examined the medieval church, purchased some postcards, and declined numerous invitations for village tours from young men. A woven reed bonnet was found at the milliner's. There was still no sign of Lina.

At last, she made her way to the tea room in the early afternoon. Fyvie stationed herself beneath the table. Although their waitresses did not seem to appreciate the big dog's presence, she did not object openly. Declining a menu card, Rhiannon ordered a pot of Darjeeling tea, to go with a selection of sandwiches and other dainties.

"Will someone be joining you, miss?" the waitress asked. She was a big-boned girl in a black sateen uniform, with white paper cuffs and a lace cap perched on top of her head. "I mean, will you be wanting full service or plainer fare?"

"Full service, please," Rhiannon answered, removing her gloves.

It wasn't long before a teapot, complete with knitted cozy, was placed on the table. Joining it was a three-tiered plate stand overflowing with seed cakes, scones with strawberry jam, salmon and cucumber sandwiches, lemon tarts, sharp Irish cheese and pickle, slices of cold spiced beef and tongue, bacon and egg pie, and buttered crumpets.

Fyvie woofed softly. Rhiannon gave her a piece of beef, then dug into her own meal with excellent appetite. When Lina arrived, more than half the feast was consumed. "My dear, I had no idea you were so hungry!"

She's in a much better temper. "Toast is all very well," Rhiannon said, "but a grown woman needs more sustenance to survive."

"I could not agree with you more." Lina ordered another pot of tea, and tucked into a huge slice of bacon and egg pie. She said between bites, "It has been a busy morning. After sending a telegram to Scotland Yard..."

"Scotland Yard?"

"Yes, I am consulting Lestrade since Holmes is not available. The man is capable of performing a simple inquiry, at least."

"And what is the subject of that inquiry?"

"Spiritualist mediums. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say, fraudulent mediums. The Madam is too experienced at her game not to have played it before. Lestrade has been asked to provide me with a list according to certain criteria which I have provided. In particular, mediums of Russian or Eastern European origin. I believe that Madam's accent is the one thing about her that is not faked."

"And Grenville?"

"I was forced to brow-beat our good doctor into allowing me to examine the body, but my initial suspicions are confirmed. Grenville did not die from natural causes. He was helped into Heaven by an injection. I cannot fault Dr. Whitstable, however. The site was devilishly difficult to locate - on the back of the neck between the second and third vertebrae."

Rhiannon noticed the waitress hovering close-by, a fascinated expression on her face. "Must we discuss such gruesome subjects while dining?" she asked, hoping her partner would take the hint.

Lina reached for a sandwich. "Further examination revealed advanced atrophy of the liver. I fear Grenville would not have lived much longer in his condition. He must have been in great pain, hence the laudanum bottles in his pantry."

"That's fine, love, but..."

The waitress crept closer, mouth agape in awe.

Mistaking Rhiannon's look of embarrassment for squeamishness, Lina patted her hand and said, "Do not dwell upon it, my dear. I did not find it easy, assisting the doctor with his knife, but I comfort myself with the knowledge that Grenville would have approved, should the evidence aid in capturing his killer."

The waitress whirled on her heel and fled. Rhiannon sighed. "News of his murder will be all over this village by nightfall," she said, dabbing her lips with a napkin. "And no doubt the story will include an exaggerated account of your ghoulish activities. You'll be dubbed the 'Vampire Lady of Inishaye.' Children will be terrified into fits. The vicar will sprinkle you with holy water. A torch-bearing mob will descend upon Inishglen, to drive out the demonic Duchess and her depraved daughter."

Lina shrugged, pouring tea. "You have a rich imagination, fueled by those dreadful novels of yours. There is already a lady vampire living in the region. It is called neamh-mhairbh, the undead. And she lives in a burial mound near the lake. Are you going to eat that seed cake?"

"You're a horrible woman." Rhiannon deliberately took the last cake and fed it to Fyvie.

"That is only the smallest portion of my charms." Lina smiled. "Do not fret, my dear. By this evening, I will have gathered more evidence in my case."

"How do you plan on doing that?"

Lina finished her cup of tea and stood, picking up her lover's packages. "By examining the spirits of the dead," she replied enigmatically.

Rhiannon rolled her eyes and sighed.

CHAPTER NINE

An inquiry at the village pub produced Mrs. O'Hara, a stout and severe widow who agreed to cook for the Inishglen household until a more permanent replacement could be arranged. She agreed to come up to the house at once. Rhiannon was somewhat unsure - in her experience, wealthy ladies preferred to choose their own staff members and resented interference from outsiders - but Lina was adamant.

"My mother is incapable of such decisions at the moment," she explained as they left the pub. "Mrs. O'Hara will do for the nonce. Our previous cook kept a generous larder, so I doubt we will suffer starvation." Lina had neglected to wear a hat into town; her raven tresses, worn woven into a coronet on top of her head, gleamed with iridescent highlights in the sun.

"Is your mother truly ill?" Rhiannon stopped, and was nearly dragged off her feet by Fyvie, who continued walking.

Lina grabbed the dog's collar with her free hand, bringing Fyvie to a halt. "Be still, you hairy beast," she commanded. Fyvie obediently sank down on her haunches. "Now, my dear... what was it you were saying?"

Rhiannon pushed red-gold curls out of her eyes. "Is your mother ill?" she repeated.

"Yes, she is." Lina released the wolfhound. An errant breeze billowed the skirt of her aquamarine gown around her feet. The air smelled of peat smoke, apples, and the promise of rain. "She is very ill indeed."

"Should we send for a doctor?"

"No, not yet. When this is over..." Lina's voice trailed off. She shook her head. "Decisions will be made when the time comes. For now, I want us to concentrate on the singular matter of Grenville's death and the mysterious Gray Lady."

Rhiannon could tell from her partner's tone that further pressing would only send Lina back into ice-eyed brooding. I love her, but Lord! She could try the patience of a saint sometimes. "Very well. I won't pry. I warn you, however, that I do expect an explanation soon. Otherwise..." She left the threat unvoiced.

Lina hastened to reassure her. "I have no intention of leaving you in the dark. In fact, you are quite crucial to my plan. All will be revealed in due time. You have my oath on it."

"I'll hold you to that promise, Lady St. Claire," Rhiannon said. After a quick glance around to be sure there were no witnesses, she tilted her face up for a kiss. Her lover complied with such enthusiasm, both women were quickly out of breath. Fyvie whined, not wanting to be left out. The wolfhound reared up, putting oversized paws on Rhiannon's arm. Lina steadied the smaller woman.

"So many depend upon your love," Lina observed, tracing the curve of Rhiannon's jaw with her thumb. "Yet your heart is big enough to encompass us all."

"Get down, Fyvie!" Rhiannon shoved the dog away; she was trying to lick her face with a tongue roughly the size of a washcloth.

Lina chuckled. "I see that I share your affections with another. Should I be jealous?"

"Will you help me?" Rhiannon spluttered. "Down, Fyvie! Down!"

Although burdened by packages, Lina managed to drag the big dog back down to the ground. "Naughty beast," she admonished lightly. Suddenly, she stiffened. "Quickly! Behind the tree!"

Rhiannon obeyed, joining the mad scramble to get out of the lane and into concealment. "Why are we doing this?" she hissed.

"Shhhh!" Lina eyed the sadly crushed rosebud posy, lying in the open. "I saw someone... there she is."

Inishaye village had a single carriage for hire, a dog-cart drawn by two old bays. It came rattling down the gravel lane, coming to a halt outside Dr. Whitstable's surgery. By sheer coincidence, the two women were hiding directly opposite.

Princess Annastasiia sat upright on the passenger seat. She had left off her bizarre Elizabethan finery for a sensible green gown, ostrich-feathered hat, and fringed parasol. The doctor himself came out to greet her.

Rhiannon strained to hear their conversation, but it was useless. They spoke for perhaps half a minute before Dr. Whitstable handed Annastasiia a small package, receiving money in return. As soon as their transaction was completed, the driver snapped the reins, sending the horses on their way. The princess' parasol bobbed in time to the dog-cart's jouncing.

Lina waited until it was gone before bounding out of hiding. The box containing Rhiannon's new bonnet, as well as the goldsmith's packages and her postcards, fell unnoticed into the dirt. "Come, my dear! The game's afoot!" She scurried across the lane, waving at the silver-haired doctor..

Rhiannon picked up her abandoned property before joining her partner. Fyvie strained at the leash, but a sharp command from her mistress made her subside. She arrived in time to hear Whitstable say, "...the same amount every month."

"Are you certain?" Lina asked intently.

"Of course. I keep records, my lady. I've not yet succumbed to senile dementia, despite your opinion to the contrary."

The peer protested, but Whitstable shook a gnarled finger in her direction and continued, "Bah! I was practicing medicine before you were born. Please do not attempt to advise me at my trade, and I will afford you the same courtesy. 'Tis true, I assumed Mr. Grenville had died of an apoplectic seizure. You cannot deny the manner of his demise was in keeping with that unfortunate disease, eh? I thought not."

"Dr. Whitstable..."

But he was far from finished with his lecture. "My lady was correct in one aspect - it appears that the Mr. Grenville did receive an injection of some kind shortly before his death. Murder? Perhaps. I have reported the matter to the proper authorities. Let them deal with it. Furthermore, I must say that in all my years of practice, I have never permitted a member of the weaker sex to intrude upon my patients - living or dead. Your insistence this morning upon attending a post mortem examination was indelicate, most indelicate indeed! Were your father still alive, I dare say he would not approve..."

"I beg you, sir, enough!" Lina said, holding up both hands. "Pray, let us leave this particular subject and attend upon my immediate inquiry."

"Very well." Whitstable drew himself up, the picture of affronted dignity, jamming his thumbs into the pockets of his waistcoat. Steel-rimmed spectacles flashed in the sunlight. "If you insist..."

"I fear that I do." Lina appeared equally offended.

Rhiannon attempted to make peace between the two. "Dr. Whitstable, it really is good of you to assist in our inquiries. They are of the greatest importance, you know." She leaned forward, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "National importance, if you comprehend my meaning."

The doctor was taken aback. "Oh, aye?" He rubbed his whiskers. "But surely, ladies need not be involved..."

"Desperate times require desperate measures," Lina interrupted solemnly. Turning her face so that Whitstable could not see, she winked at her partner.

"I see." Whitstable adjusted his spectacles. "Well, then, if it's that way..."

"I assure you, sir, only the highest purpose could force me to behave in such an unlady-like manner."

Whitstable examined her up and down, trying to detect the slightest sign of sarcasm or ridicule. Lina stared back, owl-eyed. At last, he seemed satisfied. "Since the matter is of such importance, I will tell you what I can. The woman you saw departing just now... she is Mrs. Ivanovich, nurse-companion to a wealthy lady who is staying anonymously in the area. I understand this lady is Russian in origin, a distant relative of the Tsar."

"Do go on," Rhiannon gently urged.

"Each month, Mrs. Ivanovich has arranged to pick up a quantity of heroin for her mistress. The lady suffers cruelly from heart palpitations, nervousness, pelvic hyperemia, and hysteria of the womb. Heroin, as you know, is an excellent analgesic. Not as addictive as pure morphia."

"I am familiar with its use," Lina said. There was a certain tension around her jaw. "Why did you not mention this to me earlier?"

The doctor was astounded. "My lady, what has one thing to do with another?"

"Nothing," Rhiannon said quickly. Whitstable could not possibly know there was any connection between the mysterious 'Mrs. Ivanovich' and the so-called Princess Annastasiia. "Thank you, sir. You have been most helpful."

Lina shook Whitstable's hand. "Indeed. I shall not fail to mention your contribution to our superiors."

"Perhaps even in the ear of a certain monarch, eh?" The doctor insinuated delicately.

"We shall certainly take your suggestion to heart when next we are in the royal presence. Good afternoon, sir." Lina took Fyvie's lead and walked away, followed by Rhiannon.

As soon as they were out of earshot, the red-head asked, "Is that how Grenville died? An injection of heroin?"

"I believe so." Lina paused, catching sight of their carriage coming down the lane. "I know how. I know who. And I believe that I also know why the man had to die."

Rhiannon thought back to the previous evening, when Grenville had brought brandy to the bedchamber. "He saw something he shouldn't in the seance room," she deduced.

"Precisely. Come, my dear. Let us pick up Mrs. O'Hara and thence to home." Lina pulled Fyvie short, when the wolfhound would have gone forward. The carriage was drawing abreast of them, the driver tipping his hat with a flourish. "There is work for all of us tonight, and we must rest before our labors begin."

It was not until after a luncheon of mutton broth and boxty potato cakes (ably prepared by Mrs. O'Hara) that Rhiannon had a chance to show Lina her purchases. The Duchess remained in solitude. Madam Bahzanova and her grotesque assistant requested trays in their bedchambers, so she and Lina had the dining room to themselves. After eating, the partners retired to the Perdita Suite for what Rhiannon termed, 'a council of war.'

"Which reminds me," she said as they entered together, "I had the Devil's own time bargaining with that goldsmith. He seemed to be under the impression that as I was not Irish, I must be a fool."

"Goldsmith? Good Lord, my dear, what have you been doing?" Lina kicked off her slippers and turned around, a mute invitation for her lover to undo the row of tiny buttons that marched down the back of her dress. "I hope you were not cheated."

"I don't think so." Rhiannon finished the unbuttoning, and presented herself to the taller woman for the same service. "I'll leave it for you to judge."

They changed into loose Liberty silk gowns, in matching shades of cream and chocolate brown. Rhiannon fetched the two packages, putting one into Lina's hands. "Open it, love."

"Oh!" Lina tore off the brown paper wrapping, revealing a flat velvet box. Inside was a pretty bangle bracelet in enameled gold, set with jewels. She immediately put it on her wrist, admiring the flash and sheen of multi-colored gems. "It is very pretty. Do you have one as well?"

"No, I bought earbobs." Rhiannon showed her a pair of filigree earrings. "Look at the stones on your bracelet, by the way. Does their arrangement suggest anything to you?"

"Ruby, emerald, garnet, amethyst, ruby, diamond... REGARD." Lina gave her partner a resounding kiss. "A clever acrostic, and a beautiful sentiment from the most beautiful lady in the world."

"I thought you might like it." Rhiannon returned the embrace. A warm feeling of contentment and happiness flowed through her veins. "I love you so much..."

"And it is returned a hundred-fold," Lina replied. "I wish we had gone to Venice or Monte Carlo," she suddenly burst out, clutching her partner more tightly. "There is hideous danger in this house. Promise me one thing, my dear."

"Anything."

"Give me your word that you will not leave my side for an instant. These are unscrupulous people who do not hesitate to kill. Besides Grenville, I suspect they had a hand in one other death."

"The Earl of Kinslainne's wife! Your mother said she suffered a heart failure," Rhiannon said.

"More likely she was killed for trying to expose their fraud, albeit unwittingly. She is said to have snatched at the 'etheric manifestation' of her late child's spirit. Lady Jessica was not a woman noted for intelligence or common sense, but this slight threat against the conspirators was enough to seal her doom. Therefore, we must stay side-by-side. I insist upon it. Should the Madam and her cohorts make an attempt on your life, I will not be responsible for my actions." Briefly, Lina's lips drew back in a snarl.

"I'll be very careful, I promise," Rhiannon replied a little breathlessly. Lina's fierce embrace was squeezing her ribs in a painful fashion, but she would have suffocated before complaining. "We've faced other dangers in the past."

"I know, and the merest thought of losing you gives me nightmares." Lina shivered. "Nevertheless, as you have indicated your unwillingness to be protected from criminal folly..."

"We are not going to have that argument again." Rhiannon extricated herself from Lina's arms. "I share equally with you in all things, including your investigations. I refuse to stay wrapped in cotton and thrust upon a pedestal for my own good. Unless you've now decided that I'm more a hindrance than a help?"

"God forbid!" Lina blurted this in such a heart-felt manner, Rhiannon was instantly pacified.

"Good. Now, explain to me what we'll be doing tonight." Rhiannon sat down in a chair, motioning for Lina to take the settee. She had found that her partner tended to think best when she was in a recumbent position.

And that's not all she does well laying down, Rhiannon thought wickedly, and immediately banished the surge of lust that followed. Not now. This is too important, and she doesn't need distractions. But later... ah, later... There would never be a time when she did not desire the woman who was her world.

"We will be exploring the west wing, and the seance room in particular." Lina did as she was bid, stretching her long length out, head pillowed comfortably on her hands. "Madam Bahzanova has the only key, but that should pose no real problem. There are secrets to be ferreted out, and I can think of no better device than Fyvie's nose to sniff out the truth behind the facade."

"Secret passages?"

"Secret doorways and apertures, most certainly. A murdering ghost, most likely." The peer narrowed her eyes to gleaming emerald slits. "Or I should say, a gang of murdering frauds. I sent some telegrams before joining you in the village. I hope to have an answer by tomorrow morning. If not, we will wait."

"What about your mother?"

Lina sighed. "Heroin, my dear. Diacetylmorphine - that demonic concoction of opium and acetic anhydride which can be created by any chemist of moderate skill. My mother is caught in the grip of a habit similar to Holmes' former cocaine use. I saw the injection marks on her arm. Have you noted the energetic periods followed by melancholic weariness? Itching, muscle cramps, weight loss, a considerably dimmed appetite... the signs are all there."

The implication struck Rhiannon like a blow. "You mean that Madam Bahzanova has deliberately addicted Her Grace with heroin?"

"Yes. That is her method of controlling Mother. If she does not obey, Bahzanova withholds the required dose."

"But Dr. Whitstable said it was less harmful than morphia."

"The good doctor is mistaken." Lina's mouth twitched. "You will grant that I have some experience in matters of addiction."

Rhiannon was sickened. Years before they met, her partner had struggled with alcoholism, eventually being forced into a treatment asylum to save her life. Yes, she knows what her mother is going through. How much more terrible is that knowledge, than if she had been ignorant of suffering herself?

Lina continued in a clipped voice, as if giving a lecture, "Withdrawal symptoms include increased nausea and agonizing contractions, vomiting, melancholia, inability to sleep... the worst part will be the craving. That clawing hunger that will not be denied, only controlled by exercise of will." She took a breath, let it out slowly. "I have heard that heroin is less painful to quit than alcohol. At least she will not be terrified by hallucinations, phantasms of the brain, as I was."

"Why are they doing this to her?"

"Look around you, my dear. Inishglen is a fortress ruled by a respectable wealthy widow who has many friends in the county. I do not know how she was chosen, or by what means Bahzanova attained entrance. Once established, however, the spiritualist most likely began giving Mother injections - perhaps disguised as a homeopathic remedy. It would not have taken long to reduce Her Grace to a subservient state. From what little we have gathered, I suggest that Mother was instructed to persuade moneyed acquaintances to attend seances here, for the purposes of extracting generous fees."

"The Duchess mentioned five thousand pounds from the Marquis of Ramsbrook."

"A princely sum! Who has not lost a loved one at some time? Who would not give everything in their power to see and speak to that lost love again? Everyone is vulnerable to cruel machinations that play upon their softest feelings. With the Duchess herself as advocate and protector, Bahzanova has been able to gull a privileged audience. I do not doubt that Mother has also supplied vital information for the fraud - witness her interrogation of you at the dinner table! She cannot do otherwise."

"No wonder she seems terrified."

"Yet some spark of will remains." Lina sat up, and clasped Rhiannon's hands in her own. "She took a great risk inviting us to Inishglen. I told you at the time that I had grave misgivings, mainly because her behavior was so out of the ordinary. Before the seance, she attempted to warn us of the consequences of interference. Her story about the Earl of Kinslainne's wife was not casual conversation, nor was her mention of Ramsbrook's generosity. No, Mother has called upon us as a last, desperate attempt to break free of Bahzanova's influence. She is unable to communicate directly - they keep her too closely monitored for that - but she is trying her best."

Rhiannon felt a great deal of pity for the Duchess. Whatever her past sins, no one deserves such hell. "We must help her," she said. "We must!"

"And we shall." Lina let out a soft chuckle. "My father never gave me a pony. He never nursed me after a broken arm. My governess did that, with grim Christian fortitude and watery custards. Mother knows that. She must have told deliberate lies to Bahzanova in the hopes of getting my attention."

"She succeeded. What I don't understand is why the Madam would permit Her Grace to summon you at all."

"Bahzanova can have little idea about the true state of relations between my mother and myself." Lina let go of Rhiannon's hand to rub a palm across her temple. "Having been told that I am a widow of independent means, living with another woman whose fortune is not inconsiderable, it would take a stronger character than her's to resist the bait. I have been playing at stubborn disbelief."

"Your facade seemed to crack a bit last night."

"'Seemed' is the key word, my dear. I must not put my mother in any more danger than she is already in. If I show signs of believing her spiritualist claptrap, Bahzanova will feel no need to cut her losses or Mother's throat. One hint that a trap is closing might prompt her into further violence. I cannot risk that, not until we are fully prepared."

"So it all depends on what we discover tonight." Rhiannon's turquoise gaze mirrored her partner's determination. "When do we begin, love?"

Lina's lips curved in a slow grin. "I think the witching hour is most appropriate. Do you agree?"

"Absolutely perfect for a ghost hunt."

The two women stared into one another's eyes, knowing that each felt the sudden catch of breath, the glow of promised excitement to come.

CHAPTER TEN

The Duchess was very animated at dinner that evening. Diamonds sparkled on fingers, ears, wrists. A magnificent collar of blue-white fire encircled her neck, brilliant against her black velvet gown. She did not touch Mrs. O'Hara's veal roast, but she did drink several glasses of wine. As the seating arrangements were the same as the night before, the Duchess chattered exclusively to Rhiannon. Most of the time, she did not make a great deal of sense.

Princess Annastasiia had reverted back to farthingales under yards of puce satin, caught up at the front to reveal a crimson petticoat, and a huge starched ruff. Her wig was platinum blonde, fat sausage curls ornamented with red bows. She concentrated on eating, shoveling food into her gaping mouth and chewing noisily, her simian face shiny with grease.

Lina and Rhiannon did their best to appreciate Mrs. O'Hara's cooking, but it was difficult. Knowing the Duchess' condition, neither had much appetite. By the time dessert was served, the Connemarra tart and carrageen pudding seemed too rich to tolerate. When the footmen offered coffee and sherry, Lina declined. "I am quite exhausted, Mother. Would you take it amiss if we retired early this evening?"

"Not at all, Vangie darling." The Duchess waved her glass, slopping sherry over the sides. She did not notice. Annastasiia snorted and helped herself to more tart.

Shortly after midnight, Rhiannon found herself walking into the west wing, with Fyvie pressed closely to her side. The wolfhound padded silently, long muzzle questing the air. Lina was behind them, clad in trousers and softly laundered man's shirt, her slippers making a whispery sound on the floorboards.

Rhiannon, too, had adopted men's costume, although her trousers were wide-legged enough to pass for skirts. In her pocket, she carried her little mother-of-pearl handled pistol, a present from Sherlock Holmes - just as Lina had brought her own larger revolver.

The only sources of illumination they had were a small bull's-eye lantern, which her partner held, and moonlight streaming in through the tall leaded windows. The ladies dared not light the sconces on the wall, for fear of attracting unwanted attention, or providing a warning to their prey. Cold air seeped thinly through cracks from the outside, making Rhiannon shiver. She wished she had thought to bring a shawl, then dismissed the thought as impractical.

Fyvie stopped before they reached the end of the corridor, snuffling at the floor. Lina knelt down and examined the spot. "Marks in the dust," she murmured. "A confused number of footprints and... ah, dragged draperies. What is this?" She picked up a slender piece of glass, holding it to the light. "Marked with measuring lines, do you see? Part of a hypodermic syringe, I believe."

She took a handkerchief from her pocket and placed the shard inside, wrapping it up carefully before replacing the cloth square. From her other pocket, Lina removed a morocco leather case. "Do you hold the lantern, my dear." She scooted to the door of the seance room, which was locked.

The morocco case proved to hold numerous skeleton keys and slender picks. Rhiannon guided the lantern's light as directed while Lina peered at the lock. "Hmph. What they spent on deceptive frills might have been better served in obtaining a decent lock. This would not tax the ingenuity of a child." It took only a moment before the door was opened.

They went inside, Fyvie scampering ahead. The room was quiet, oppressive, all sound muffled by the thick carpets and velvet wall hangings. The air seemed stale. Rhiannon glanced around nervously. "Where should we start?"

Lina snatched a handful of the wolfhound's ruff. "Let us be guided by Fyvie." She took the dog into the spirit cabinet and allowed her to sniff the walls and floor. "Now follow the scent," she commanded. "Go on, beast. Do as you have been bid." Fyvie gazed at her sidelong with those yellow eyes, tongue lolling out of her mouth, and sat down. "My dear, if you would be so kind...?" Lina sighed.

Rhiannon suppressed a giggle. "Fyvie... seek!"

The shaggy wolfhound bounded out of the cabinet, tail whisking, nose working.

"There are times when I swear that beast deliberately tries my patience for her own amusement." Lina folded her arms across her chest and attempted to look severe. "You are turning an interesting shade of crimson, my dear."

"I can't help it." Rhiannon tried to keep her voice down. "Lady Evangeline St. Claire, foiled by a wee doggie."

"Wee doggie?" Lina's eyebrows shot to her hairline. "Have you seen the monthly butcher's bill? Not," she added hastily, "that I begrudge a single morsel that passes Fyvie's lips. She did save your life in Scotland. For that alone, I hold her dear, if somewhat exasperating."

"I know you only brought her here to please me," Rhiannon said.

"Frankly, we could have searched the room by ourselves, but I felt obliged to release the creature from durance vile. I did agree to bring her, and she should have an opportunity to be useful."

Fyvie pawed at a puddled length of velvet. Lina made haste to push the fabric aside. "Excellent," she purred, staring at the concealed doorway. The room beyond was dark. "Bring the lantern." She pulled the revolver from her pocket. Before she could stop her, the wolfhound slunk through the hole and into darkness.

Rhiannon came forward hastily, pushing past her partner. "Fyvie! Come here... oh my God!" The screech was cut off abruptly.

Lina leaped through the opening, cold fear-sweat congealing on her body, heart in her throat. The first thing she saw was Rhiannon's face in a circle of amber light, a hand clapped to her mouth. Her lover's turquoise eyes were wide, filled with horror. Swiftly, Lina looked this way and that, revolver at the ready, searching for the threat. "What, where?" she demanded.

In answer, Rhiannon pointed mutely towards a corner. Lina peered in the indicated direction. Huddled in the shadows, barely visible, was the figure of Madam Bahzanova. The woman's head was bowed, arms and legs a-spraddle.

"Is she dead?" Rhiannon whispered hoarsely.

Lina took another look, then laughed. "Hardly, my dear." She went over to the horrid thing and lifted it up easily. "A life-sized doll. Now we know how the good Madam performed the miracle of being in two places at once.  With this inside the spirit cabinet, she was free to wander as she pleased."

Further exploration of the room revealed a bundle of telescoping rods, a bag filled with luminous muslin, perfumes and oils, musical instruments with loops of black thread tied strategically. An old table held music boxes, jars of glowing paste, wigs, false teeth, waxed mustaches - many of the accouterments of stage actors.

Now over her fright, Rhiannon walked around the large room, softly rapping her knuckles on the walls. Suddenly, she remembered something. "Where's Fyvie?"

"Has the cursed beast disappeared?" In another corner, opposite the place where they had found the dummy, Lina found what she was looking for. "Come out at once," she ordered the dog, who seemingly reappeared from a dark place much too small to have concealed her. "I expected something of the sort."

Rhiannon buried her fingers into Fyvie's fur. "What?"

"An excavation into the room behind this one." To Rhiannon's dismay, Lina's upper half vanished into the dense shadows. "Most interesting, my dear." Her voice was muffled.

"I'm glad to hear it," the smaller woman said, a trifle acidly. "As much as I admire your backside, would you please come out of there and speak to me?"

"You will find this most interesting. Come and look." Lina made a gesture with her free hand.

Telling Fyvie, "Stay!" Rhiannon walked over to her lover. Unable to resist the target thus displayed, she gave Lina's bottom a swift smack, making the other woman jump.

"Pray tell, was that necessary?" Lina complained.

"Quite. I can't be expected to avoid temptation when it's practically thrust into my face." Rhiannon squirmed in beside her, shoving the lantern close to Lina's face. Someone had knocked out plaster and lathe in the corner, providing entrance into another room behind the seance chamber. She could see the back of the spirit cabinet. "So Madam goes inside the cabinet, the front door is closed. She hurries out through the back, substitutes the doll in her place, and quickly applies the necessary art to counterfeit a ghost. If anyone looks into the cabinet, it appears that she is still there. No one would suspect a chair-bound cripple of trickery."

"An impression that Bahzanova takes pains to cultivate. I suspect she is no more handicapped than I am." Lina craned away from the lantern. "Do be careful, my dear. I should look a perfect fright with my nose burned off."

"I'm sorry." Rhiannon put a caressing hand on her partner's back. "There must be other exits and entrances hidden behind the velvet hangings. Oh! There's a hole in the ceiling just over there, and a ladder."

"By which means our accomplice gains access to the space above the coffered false ceiling." Lina's complexion seemed drained of color in the wavering light. Her lips quirked. "Your morbid taste in literature is apparently shared by the criminal classes. Madam and her partners must have gotten their idea from some sensational novel. A crumbling country home, perched atop windswept cliffs, riddled with secret passages and priests' holes... bah! Should we discover a madwoman in the attic, I would not be overly surprised."

"There are no windswept cliffs in Inishglen," Rhiannon said. "Now you're being silly and melodramatic."

"Perhaps I am merely being observant."

Lina backed out of the corner, and Rhiannon followed, saying, "Madam has two accomplices - one playing the part of Princess Annastasiia, the other disguised as the Gray Lady and hiding somewhere in the house."

"I suspect at least one of those is a child."

"A child!" Rhiannon was horrified. Her involuntary exclamation brought Fyvie to her side. The wolfhound pressed close to her skirts, whining softly.

Lina continued, "Of course, the deduction is based on our so-called Princess' stature. Even allowing for the device she wears to mimic a spinal deformity - more of this silly misdirection, I believe - Annastasiia cannot be above four-and-a-half feet. A dwarf would be too fantastic, hence my conclusion that she must be young enough not have attained her mature growth. But I do not wish to mislead you, my dear. Annastasiia could be male or female; I have detected no obvious signs of either. Unless one is permitted to make an examination of the subject in an unclothed state, those cursed Elizabethan gowns hide a great deal. Furthermore, if Annastasiia is a young boy, his cheeks will be smooth for a while yet."

"And the Gray Lady?"

"I cannot be sure, but I can make a conjecture. Do you recall the smear of luminous paint I found on the door of Grenville's pantry? There were also threads caught in the wood. I believe the 'ghost' must have brushed against the frame, most likely with her shoulder as she entered. If one deduces that much, then the conclusion drawn is that whoever plays the Gray Lady is of normal stature. Approximately your own height, my dear. I cannot go any further without evidence."

Fyvie suddenly growled. Rhiannon glanced over her shoulder. The dog was stiff-legged, ruff bristling, tail held low. Lina quickly extinguished the lantern, but not before holding a finger to her lips. Rhiannon whispered, "Fyvie, hush!" and held her breath. Her free hand sought Lina's; their fingers intertwined tightly.

A scuffling noise came to them, originating outside the secret chamber, in the seance room itself. It sounded like slippered feet moving across the floor.

Lina released her hand and glided away, leaving Rhiannon alone in the dark. She could feel Fyvie pressing against her legs. Rhiannon blinked; her eyes were straining to capture any image in the syrupy blackness. She reached into her pocket, drew out her little mother-of-pearl handled pistol. She did not dare fire, not unless she could see her target - the last thing Rhiannon wanted to do was shoot Lina by accident - but she took comfort in the solid feel of the gun in her palm.

There was a louder scuffling, a soft grunt, and a muffled thud.

Every muscle in Rhiannon's body was rigid. She gripped the pistol tightly, her nerves on edge and screaming for relief. Just when she reached the breaking point, about to burst from frustration and suspense, she heard Lina's voice.

"Can you light the lantern, my dear? It should be somewhere near your foot."

Rhiannon blew out a breath and replied somewhat acidly, "The lucifers are upstairs." She was trembling all over, and feeling very irritated by Lina's sense of the dramatic. "Shall I rub two sticks together? Assuming I can find any sticks in this gloom."

"Never mind."

Rhiannon heard Lina walking away; the other woman was making no effort now to conceal her movements. After a moment, there was the scritch of a lucifer being struck, then a wavering pinpoint of light. Lina reappeared, holding a candle she had found. "Oh, you may put your toy away," she said. "The danger has passed."

"What danger?" Rhiannon shoved her pistol back in her pocket. "If you don't explain yourself immediately, Evangeline St. Claire, I'm going to scream!"

"We have had a visitation. Do not take on so, my dear. All is well. When I spoke of 'danger,' I did so facetiously."

Rhiannon muttered, "Someday you will drive me mad," but she followed the other woman out into the seance room.

On the floor was a heap of dusty gray veils that glowed faintly, a greenish luminescence that reminded Rhiannon of the flying objects she had seen during Bahzanova's seance. Lina prodded the fabric with a toe and scowled.

"I very nearly had our Gray Lady in hand," she said, "but whoever it was managed to escape my grip and disappear. There is no use looking for footprints, and I have no wish to rouse the household."

Rhiannon knelt down and picked up a piece of muslin. "This work is very crude," she commented.

"But manufactured well enough to fool someone already primed to see ghosties and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night." Lina set the candle down on the floor. "As I said before, any servant who glimpsed the 'Gray Lady' from afar would make haste to get out of the way. Do not forget Cook's example! I doubt they would pause to ascertain the apparition's credentials first."

"True. Do you think this person was listening to us?"

"I doubt that very much. The Gray Lady has a veritable elephant's tread, far too heavy for subterfuge. She could not have been more obvious in her approach if she had been wearing hobnailed boots."

"But when Madam learns that her accomplice has been unmasked, will that not put your mother in grave danger?"

"I do not even know if the accomplice can identify me as her attacker. It was dark and I can be quiet when I choose." Lina looked down at Rhiannon, a faint smile wreathing her lips. "Have no worries that she will tittle-tattle to Madam. For all she knows, she interrupted servants having a tryst and received the brunt of someone's panicked flailing. No, I believe we are quite safe. Madam will not abandon such a lucrative scheme so easily."

Rhiannon stood up, shaking out her skirts, then bent over to blow out the candle. "In that case, we had better return to our room before the Gray Lady comes searching for his veils."

"An excellent plan, my dear."

Fortunately, they did not meet anyone on their way back to the Perdita Suite.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The next morning, Rhiannon was brushing her hair when Lina returned to their bedroom, brandishing a bunch of flimsy telegram papers. "Lestrade has come through magnificently, my dear. I believe our Madam is, in fact, a villain named Vasily Ivanovitch Tatev," she said with a huge grin.

"Oh?" Rhiannon put down the brush and turned to face her partner. "And what other information has Lestrade given you?"

"Vasily Tatev - his surname is an Old Russian diminutive for 'thief' - has plagued England since he came into this country three years ago, bringing with him a history of theft and confidence work. He ran a very successful spiritualist game in London that gulled no less a personage than the Countess of Andover." Lina sat down in a chair near the window. "Needless to say, when Tatev was found ultimately exposed as a fraud, the scandal was hushed up. Finding London too hot, he fled to ply his trade in the country. I believe my mother is not his first victim."

"Why hasn't he been arrested?"

Lina sighed and tossed the telegrams onto a nearby table. The window had been opened to allow a breeze to freshen their room; the thin papers trembled, then fluttered to the floor with sighs of their own. "Because he targets wealthy peers, my dear. The upper class cannot bear a scandal. Imagine the horror, to see one's name in the newspapers, to hear one's folly whispered and tittered about at every social occasion! Not to mention the appalling notion that urchins may taunt one in the streets. No, anyone who fell prey to Tatev's machinations would think themselves well off that they lost nothing more than cash."

Rhiannon's eyes widened. "He is a murderer, too. Could that be so easily hushed up?"

"Tatev is not a common cutthroat; he is ruthless and clever. He kills only when he deems it necessary, and employs methods that may be mistaken for natural death."

"Injections of heroin."

"Or a hatpin thrust into the base of the neck. Either would leave very little trace. An ordinary physician, untrained in criminal examinations, would be hard pressed to verify the cause of death. Even if murder was suspected, there are ways of hushing up suspicions, particularly if they involve the so-called noble class."

"Why don't you call the police? At the very least, they'd arrest Tatev for fraud!" Rhiannon had a sudden vision of Lina, cold and dead, sightless eyes staring into eternity. A chill ran down her spine. She stood up and walked to her partner's chair.

"That is hardly a consideration." Lina's emerald eyes glittered. "There are deeper waters here than you know. Few realize Tatev's true colors, and you will not find many of his former victims or criminal confederates willing to testify against him in a public court. Now suppose one did accuse that clever scoundrel of murder and bring him to dock. Can you imagine the scene? Tatev might say that the Duchess is a hopeless drug addict, whom he kindly but misguidedly agreed to shield from scandal. Paint himself as the protector of  a woman who had abused her late husband's memory by engaging in intimate relations with a servant, only to have that same servant threaten to expose her. When she could no longer tolerate the situation, she took steps to eliminate the cause of her distress. Do you understand my fears?"

"You think Tatev will accuse your mother of Grenville's murder? My God!"

"He could make a tolerably plausible case. I do not say it will happen, only that it can. Do not forget that Tatev is capable of swift thought and swifter action when under pressure. Recall the poor Duchess of Kinslainne! Snatching at a ghost one moment, dead of an apparent heart attack the next. He might not have the opportunity to kill my mother, but I have no doubt that he would attempt to destroy her in any fashion he could."

"But who would believe a proven fraudster?"

"Oh, his word would not be enough to see Her Grace convicted; she is, after all, a noblewoman and wealthy in her own right. But her fascination with spiritualism would count heavily against her, as far as judging her mental state - especially with the subtle taint of sex and murder hovering about the case. Do you not recall the days when spiritualist mediums were sent to the asylum by their own husbands, persecuted for their beliefs which others thought were un-Christian and therefore lunatic? That was a bare two decades ago. The judge would have my mother committed in an instant, 'for her own protection,' he would say. Actually, he would do it to avoid a trial which might damage the peerage. It would take years of litigation to get her free again."

Rhiannon hugged her. "I'm sorry, love. I thought you were being..."

"Indulgent? Lord knows I can be. And yes, I admit a certain fondness for theater, which has so often caused you aggravation. I care nothing for my own reputation, but I will not stand aside and let my mother be an unwitting accomplice to murder, no matter how much she despises me. Nor can I expose the woman to a court of law, not in her current state of health. The stress of a trial may very well kill her. Yet Tatev must pay, if for nothing more than depriving my friend of his life."

Lina sounded so sorrowful that Rhiannon embraced her more tightly still. "What do we have to do?" Rhiannon asked.

The raven-haired woman looked out of the window for several long moments. At last, she turned her gaze back to Rhiannon. "My dear, there is dangerous work afoot. If I thought you would heed my wishes, I would send you back to London at once."

"But you know that I will not leave you."

"Indeed. Therefore, I have formulated a plan to deal with Tatev, but it requires placing you in the most hideous peril. I will do everything within my power to keep you safe, except I cannot guarantee your life with absolute certainty." Lina clutched one of her lover's hands and groaned, "If anything happened to you... if only Holmes were not taking a Swiss holiday, curse the man... oh, what a damnable situation!"

Rhiannon gently removed her hand from Lina's grip, bent her head and kissed the other woman's brow. "Just tell me what I must do," she replied, her expression containing not a trace of fear.

"If you feel that you cannot place yourself at such a risk..."

"Stop that, you silly goose! I'm your partner. It's about time you acknowledged that I'm capable of more than being decorative and warming your bed."

Lina stared at her, shocked into momentary speechlessness. When she recovered herself sufficiently, she said, "My dear, I have never denigrated your physical prowess or your mental agility. I realize that my protective instincts have remained a point of contention between us..."

Rhiannon interrupted by laying a finger across Lina's lips. "I may not be Sherlock Holmes but I can protect myself quite handily when required. Life is full of risks, my love. I could be run over by a cart in the street, or drop dead from a fit, or be stricken down by a falling star. Of course, I hope we will both live to a ripe old age and continue to scandalize all and sundry. My point is that we're partners. We share joy and laughter, tears and sorrow, love and passion, and whatever dangers your chosen profession may bring. All I ask is that you simply trust me, the way you would trust Holmes to take care of himself without a nursemaid present. Does this meet with your agreement?"

Lina swallowed hard. She would never forget Rhiannon's suicide attempt two years ago, brought on by her torture at the hands of that madwoman, Victoire Rousseau. Guilt for that incident and its aftermath still haunted her to some extent. She could not contemplate life without the woman who was the mate of her heart, mind and soul. Nevertheless, Rhiannon had a point. If they were to remain together - and that was fervently to be desired - then Lina would have to trust her to take care of herself. It was difficult, and Lina would never be blithe about placing her partner in danger, but it had to be done.

After a pause, Lina replied, "I admit myself chastised, and apologize for reviving such a distasteful subject. However, I do not exaggerate when I say that if my plan fails, you may end as Tatev's latest victim of murder. There. That is plain enough. Not a cart or a fit or a falling star, but death at the hands of a ruthless killer. If this proves to be the case, he will not, of course, survive you very long, my dear. And before you take offense, let me state that I would give Holmes the same warning."

Rhiannon smiled slightly. "But not, I think, the same promise of vengeance."

"I love Holmes dearly, but not as much as I cherish and adore you." Lina's brows drew together in a frown. "At least you must promise me to exercise every caution. Keep your pretty little pistol loaded and at hand. Do not hesitate to shoot if you believe your life is in danger."

"You have my word."

Lina drew a deep breath to steel herself for the ordeal to come. "You must see, as I do, that the only way to stop Tatev is to catch him red-handed before a credible witness. In order to capture a predator, one requires irresistible bait. We must first lay the groundwork of our trap. Here is my plan..."

When the dark-haired woman finished speaking, Rhiannon thought, She was right. The peril is considerable. However, I won't run away to London and leave her alone. If I cannot face this, I don't deserve to be called her partner.

Aloud, she said, "When shall we begin?"

"Today, my dear."

"Very well. Today." And Rhiannon leaned down to kiss Lina once more.

Madam Bahzanova had installed herself in a a guest chamber called the Violet Room. Furnished with heavy rosewood pieces in the Baroque style, it also boasted a mural that ran around every wall, depicting an Italian fantasy landscape complete with satyrs and nymphs and white marble ruins. The drapes at the windows were kept permanently drawn; illumination came from a myriad of candles that were left ablaze day and night.

Rhiannon entered this sanctum, escorted by the grotesque Annastasiia. Madam Bazhanova - Vasily Tatev in horrid disguise - was waiting for them, huddled in a nest of shawls in his Bath chair, which stood next to the fireplace. "You wished to see me, my child?" Tatev said in his thick and oily accent.

"Yes. I believe it would be best if we were to discuss this important matter alone," Rhiannon replied, staring down at the port wine-stained face, the yellowed teeth, the absurdly large and hairy mole. Misdirection, she recalled. Stagecraft designed to prevent one from seeing the truth that lies beneath. Even though she knew that Bazhanova was the infamous Tatev in disguise, it was impossible to get any idea of what the man looked like sans make-up.

"Indeed?" Tatev raised his brows. His eyes were shielded behind blue spectacles, but Rhiannon could feel his gaze penetrating her almost to the bone. "And why do you wish such a thing, eh?"

Rhiannon leaned over, so that her face was on the same level as Tatev's. "I think it would be in your best interests to grant me a private interview," she said, in tones low enough to exclude Annastasiia from eavesdropping on the conversation. "The matter involves money. A great deal of it, in fact."

Tatev's eyebrows shot up to the hairline of his wig. His fingers, weighted with rings, twisted together in his lap. He hesitated a moment before snapping, "Your Royal Highness Annastasiia, please go at once and see to the comfort of our beloved Duchess. I believe it is nearly time for her medication."

"But..." Annastasiia looked from Tatev to Rhiannon, and back to her master, "I thought that you..."

"Go!" Tatev waved a hand in emphasis. "Get out!"

With ill grace and a poisonous glare at Rhiannon, the false princess took her leave. As soon as Annastasiia was gone, Tatev said, "Now, Miss Moore, we are alone. How may I serve you?"

Rhiannon sat down in a chair, arranging her turquoise colored skirts neatly; the shade matched her eyes. "I was very affected by my dear mother's message from the Other Side. Death can change someone so greatly, they are virtually unrecognizable."

"Whatever do you mean, Miss Moore?"

"Frankly, that you are a damnable fraud." Rhiannon made this pronouncement with cool confidence. "The information I related to the Duchess was false; a test to see if what I suspected was true. You see, I was in the service of the Countess of Andover, Madam... or should I say, Mr. Tatev?"

The medium clenched his fists. "You play a dangerous game, little one."

"I recognized your stage-craft. Not as subtle as some - to be honest, Mr. Tatev, your act reeks of third-rate theater - but I'll grant you it's effective enough to fool those with more money than intelligence."

As Tatev made a grasping movement towards her, Rhiannon pulled out her pistol. It was a dainty thing but lethal at such close quarters. "Keep very still, Mr. Tatev. If you frighten me, I might shoot you in the face."

Tatev froze, then leaned back in his Bath chair. "As you wish, Miss Moore. I'm in your power. What do you intend to do?"

"I have expenses that my lover knows nothing about." Rhiannon kept the pistol trained on him. "Certain tastes which are difficult to gratify without the necessary cash. I don't think it's necessary to go further than that. What I need, Mr. Tatev, is money. Pounds sterling, to be precise. You are in the fortunate position to give me what I need."

"Or?" Tatev raised his brows delicately.

"Or I'll expose you and your scheme to the authorities. I hardly need remind you that your activities in London left a nasty taste in a great many powerful mouths. You might not live long enough to be brought to trial. Indeed, to avoid revitalizing a scandal, inconvenient persons have been known to disappear while swimming in the Thames."

"I do not take your meaning."

"It is difficult to remain afloat when one is wrapped in heavy chains and fastened to a brace of cannonballs. Mark my words, when it comes to protecting their own interests, the peers of the realm are cruel as cats and equally heartless. Anything can be arranged if one has the connections."

Tatev shrugged. "If you expose me, you also expose the Duchess. I will accuse her, yes? Of terrible things."

"Do your worst." It was Rhiannon's turn to shrug. "I care nothing for the bitch. As for Lina... well, it would be a blessing in disguise, wouldn't it? She'd inherit Inishglen and all that lovely property, and I'd be right there enjoying it with her. If you have a better threat up your sleeve, make it. Otherwise, don't waste my time."

"I see." Tatev steepled his fingers together; the gemstones in his rings flashed and glittered. "I am a business man, Miss Moore. We can do business, I think, as long as you understand that the well is not inexhaustible."

"You'd kill me if my demands became too unreasonable, so here is my proposition - you will pay me fifty thousand pounds, in cash. You may be sure that I'll count every shilling."

"I would expect no less," Tatev said, his voice laden with irony.

Rhiannon kept her icy gaze fixed on him. "After I've received the payment, I'll encourage Lina to travel. A leisurely Continental tour that will keep us out of England for at least three months. That should be enough time for you to finish picking Ireland clean and move on to more prosperous ventures."

"So... you will not know where I am or what guise I am operating under, and exposing my scheme in Inishglen will mean nothing once you return. You'll be unable to continue blackmailing me. Very good, Miss Moore. I'm impressed. But how do I know that you'll not simply take my money and then turn me over?"

"You have my word."

"Honor among thieves? Oh, little one, what a romantic notion!" Tatev chuckled, then frowned. "Unfortunately, I am not a romantic man. I'll require more assurance than that."

"What will ease your fears?"

Tatev's smile was very unpleasant. "An equal hold over you."

Alerted by some inner instinct, Rhiannon turned her head. What she saw made her start to leap from the chair. Princess Annastasiia was behind her, a hypodermic syringe poised in her hand, an evil grin on her wrinkled simian face.

The needle plunged forward, straight towards Rhiannon's throat.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Twisting around, Rhiannon blocked the syringe with one hand and with the other, flourished her pistol in Annastasiia's face. Her finger tightened on the trigger. "Don't be too clever!" Rhiannon warned. She gave Tatev a sidelong glance. "Stay in your chair, unless you want to die."

Tatev spread his hands apart. "My apologies for Her Highness' presumption. Annastasiia, come here!"

With much grumbling, the princess went to her master, carefully side-stepping Rhiannon and her dainty pistol.

Rhiannon kept her expression fierce, although inwardly she was shivering at the close call. "Is this how you treat all your business partners, Mr. Tatev?"

"As I said, Annastasiia was not acting under my orders."

"Then I suggest you control her more efficiently." Rhiannon sat back down, keeping the pistol trained on the wizened dwarf and the medium huddled in his shawls. She bent over, still watching the pair, and picked up the syringe. "Shall we continue our discussion?"

"Indeed." Tatev took hold of Annastasiia's arm and jerked her down to sit on his knee. "Fifty thousand pounds is a petty fortune. I understood that you have private financial means, not dependent upon Lady Evangeline."

"True. I had a tolerably good legacy. My debts soon exceeded my income."

"And your lover knows nothing of this? I wonder why."

Rhiannon snapped, "Because I haven't told her. There are certain clubs in London. Special places, you understand, for persons who require discreet entertainments of the sort that polite society frowns upon. Drugs, gaming, the company of young ladies who provide satisfaction for jaded appetites."

Tatev blinked behind his blue spectacles. "You hardly seem the sort, Miss Moore."

"I was corrupted long before I met Lina. Surely you know, Mr. Tatev, that I was once a prostitute myself. That scandalous tale has been making the rounds for years. It can hardly be surprising that I sometimes crave less mannered company." Rhiannon eased her tension on the trigger but did not take her finger off it entirely. "And I am fond of cards and dice. They, however, are not so fond of me as to permit a winning streak."

"Is that all?"

Rhiannon pursed her lips. "Not entirely. I've written letters - indiscreet letters - to other women. Lina means well, but she is sometimes very boring company. I crave a little more excitement at times."

"And were these letters returned to you?"

"Of course not! But I could provide you with a list of my inamorata. They're common girls; a few pounds would be enough to tempt them into betraying me. If Lina knew of these indiscretions, she would toss me out, bag and baggage." Rhiannon pushed a stray lock of red-gold hair behind her ear with her free hand. "Do you consider this an equitable exchange?"

"Perhaps." Tatev kept his grip on Annastasiia's thin arm. "Yes, I must consider this."

"Don't take too long. Lina wishes to return to London within a few days and I must have your answer."

"You will have it very soon. Good day, Miss Moore."

"Good day, Mr. Tatev."

Rhiannon rose and made her way to the door, proud that her hands were not shaking, and that her expression did not betray the chill that turned her blood to ice in her veins. As she opened it, she caught a glimpse of Tatev's face. He was staring at her with the dispassionate gaze of a scientist examining an insect in the killing jar.

Perched on his knee like a pet monkey, Princess Annastasiia glared with pure hatred and the promise of death in her dark eyes.

Rhiannon left the Violet Room, an uneasy feeling making the hair on the back of her neck stir and threaten to rise.

Meanwhile, Lina burst through the front door of the castle. Her skirts were muddy to the knees, her ink-black hair had come loose from its pins and was hanging in wild disarray down her back. "Quickly!" she shouted at the stunned servants. "An overturned coach in the road!"

After making this shocking pronouncement, Lina turned tail and raced back outdoors, pelting down the drive with her ruined dress flapping around her ankles. Although the servants lacked the guidance of a butler's authority since Grenville's death, two footmen were galvanized into action by the new cook, Mrs. O'Hara. The unflappable matron had been drawn from her kitchen by the commotion. She made the sign of the cross to avert bad luck, and sent word to the stable to ready a horse, in case a doctor had to be fetched from the village.

The footmen returned in short order, bearing between them a woman. They were carrying her with utmost care as Lina supervised and fussed like a hen over a single chick. The victim of the accident was quite stout; the bodice of her tobacco-brown dress strained over an impressively swelling bosom, and gloved hands rested on top of a plump belly. The extraordinarily long brim and heavy veil of a coal scuttle bonnet, decades out of date, obscured her face, but a few straggling locks of hair fallen down at the sides were silvery-gray. It was obvious that she was old but solidly fleshed, for the footmen were sweating and panting as they staggered into the hall.

"Take her up the stairs," Lina directed, ignoring the footmen's florid wet faces and rolling eyes. "Mrs. O'Hara, be so kind as to have one of the maids make up the Ophelia Room."

"Will you be needin' the doctor?" Mrs. O'Hara asked, trying to catch a glimpse of the old lady behind her veiled bonnet without being too conspicuous about it.

"I think not. Mrs. Murdle is suffering from shock but no actual injury. She was on her way to visit a relation when the carriage overturned." Lina broke off her explanation in order to shout at the struggling footmen, "The poor lady has suffered enough without being bowled down the stairs! Do be cautious!"

Mrs. O'Hara's brow creased in a frown. "There's no Murdles hereabouts, mum, or I'd've heard of 'em."

"She is most likely a maiden aunt or widow of some kind," Lina said. "I did not have time to ascertain her precise connections, Mrs. O'Hara. Now, the carriage driver - one of those hired fellows from the rail station - is taking care of the horses. Should he require assistance, I have informed him that Inishglen's resources are at his disposal. Mrs. Murdle will be our guest this evening. She needs rest and is not to be disturbed. Perhaps you will be so good as to prepare some invalid's victuals - calf's foot jelly, blancmange, that sort of thing."

"Aye, mum." Mrs. O'Hara cast a final suspicious look at the footmen, reeling up the stairs with their burden, and went back to the kitchen, muttering to herself.

The other servants, who had been dawdling in the corridor within earshot, began to drift away. A maid darted up the stairs, the ribbon of her starched apron fairly snapping, her arms loaded with clean linens. Lina waited until the footmen had gained the landing and were puffing towards the Ophelia Room before she followed them.

Rhiannon was waiting at the top of the stairs. Lurking behind her was the bizarre figure of Princess Annastasiia, her simian face framed by a huge cartwheel ruff. The princess did not seem happy; her expression was like a thundercloud. Every time she glanced at Rhiannon, her fingers twitched.

"What happened?" Rhiannon asked, ignoring Annastasiia.

Lina explained the carriage accident, ending with, "Someone will have to stay up with the poor old dear in case she takes a bad turn during the night. After supper, I will sit with her until midnight. Will you take the second shift, my dear? I fear that with the recent troubles, none of the servants would be trustworthy enough."

"Of course." Rhiannon took Lina's arm and allowed herself to be escorted away.

Annastasiia crumpled her satin skirts in a fist then darted to the Violet Room, her footsteps pattering urgently on the carpeted floor.

As soon as it was safe to speak, Rhiannon said, "Mrs. Murdle?"

"Tasty bait, my dear." Lina risked a peek over her shoulder; the door to the Violet Room was ajar but there was no sign of Annastasiia. Nevertheless, her voice was barely above a whisper. "Our little fishies will gulp it down tonight and, with any luck, become thoroughly hooked.."

"Fishies? Call them sharks instead." Rhiannon showed her the empty hypodermic syringe. "The princess very nearly drew my life's blood with it."

Lina's cheeks paled. "Were you injured?"

"No." Rhiannon chuckled at the horrified expression on her partner's face. "Don't worry, love. I know the venture has its risks and I'll be on my guard."

"Very well." Lina said with a sigh of resignation. "And other than an attack upon your person, how did you fare with Tatev?"

"I think he believes me, at least to the extent of promising another interview."

"I will take this," Lina said, plucking the syringe from Rhiannon's hand, "and compare it with the shard we found in the west wing. It seems a common enough device, so my result will not be conclusive evidence. However, every shred will aid our case."

Rhiannon nodded. "Is there anything else I can do until tonight?"

Lina grimaced. "Do not wander about the grounds without an escort. Avoid balconies, parapets and roof-tops. Eat and drink nothing that you have not seen prepared with your own eyes. Remain alert, my dear."

"I will. I love you."

"I love you, too." Lina gave the smaller woman a hug. "I must see how Mrs. Murdle fares. Will you look in on my mother? I have not seen her this morning and wonder if she is indisposed."

"Of course." Rhiannon squeezed Lina's ribs tightly enough to make her catch her breath, then made her way towards the other end of the hall, in the direction of the Duchess' bed chamber..

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Duchess of Inishglen was hard at work at her writing desk when Rhiannon came into her bedchamber. The pugs were not in evidence. "My darlings are taking a little constitutional with the maid," the Duchess explained, signing a letter with a flourish. "I hope she prevents them from digging up the rosebushes again."

"How do you feel, Your Grace?" Rhiannon asked.

"Tired, dear girl. Taking care of an estate requires intelligence, energy, vast organizational abilities, and more patience than a saint." The Duchess swiveled around in her chair. Although it was afternoon, she was wearing a loose fitting morning gown of black lace, and her gray-flecked dark hair was pulled back in a simple braid. "Do sit down."

Rhiannon settled down on a chair near the fireplace. "Thank you."

"Miss Moore... Rhiannon," the Duchess said, "it may seem to you that I am a cruel woman, because I have avoided participation in Vangie's life since... well, since she decided to abandon conventionality..."

"Actually, Your Grace..."

"Please permit me to finish." The Duchess held up a hand. "I want to explain my position to you. This house - this great estate of Inishglen - belongs to me, not to my late husband. Specifically, the title can only be inherited by a female of direct descent from the founding line. An unusual state of affairs, to put it mildly, but one which I have no desire to change. When I die, Vangie will be the new Duchess. I hope that she will live here and be happy."

"I'm sure she will, Your Grace. And I'm sure it won't be for a long, long time."

"My concern is not for Vangie, however, but for the next generation," the Duchess continued, as if she had not heard Rhiannon's remark. "If Vangie dies without issue, Inishglen will devolve upon some cadet branch of the family. A stranger. One who has no regard for the proud traditions of this house. Can you understand my grief? The depth of my concern? I do not reproach her for myself - God knows, my daughter is strong-willed, and her reputation is her own to destroy - but for the sake of Inishglen. I must remind her of her duty, no matter how distasteful she finds it.

"When Vangie's poor husband died, I hoped..." The Duchess paused delicately, and went on, "Well, it became clear that she was not with child from that brief union. I waited patiently, even throughout that terrible period when her drunkeness seemed on the verge of destroying her life. You know about that, I suppose?"

"Yes, I do. She blamed herself for the death of a lover, who later proved to be alive." Rhiannon's mouth drew into a thin, disapproving line. "Sherlock Holmes was her best and only friend at that time. He saved her life. She had no one else."

"I could not approach her. I dared not. The feelings between us were too hurtful. But whatever she may think about me, I love my daughter. I will be frank, Rhiannon, and hope that I do not shock you with my bluntness." The Duchess leaned forward, propping her elbow on the arm of the chair. Black lace cuffs fell back, exposing scabs and bruises on her thin arm. "I do not care if Vangie takes female lovers. Discreetly or blatently, it makes no difference to me. Her romantic relationships are her own concern. However, if she does not have an heir, all that I and the other women of Inishglen have worked hard to achieve will be lost. Let her make a marriage of convenience to someone - anyone! Commoner or nobleman. Any man will do, as long as he is capable of creating healthy offspring. One female child is all that I ask. She need not even raise it herself. I can arrange matters so that she is not in the least inconvenienced."

Rhiannon blinked. She had no idea that this was the issue that lay between mother and daughter.

The Duchess went on, "I realize that on her own, Vangie will never marry. But she must! Surely you can see that."

"I don't... I can't tell Lina what to do, Your Grace."

"Ah, but you can. I've seen the way my daughter dotes upon you. If you were to plead my case, Vangie would listen to you. Please help me. Don't destroy the heritage of Inishglen because of selfishness."

Rhiannon had started to take the Duchess' hand; now she jerked back, frowning. "Selfishness?"

"She has a duty to the next generation. So do you. Ignoring that duty is selfish and self-indulgent." The Duchess stood up, shaking out her skirts. "Vangie chose to separate herself from this family when she took up with that French woman, Victoire. It broke her father's heart. It nearly tore mine to pieces, yet I have never ceased to remind Vangie of her duty in the hope that someday, she may return to her senses and stop all this tribade foolishness."

"You presume to tell me my duty?" Rhiannon was beginning to understand why Lina disliked her mother so much. "Your Grace, I do not have such an easy command of Lina as you obviously think. I am not her master, and she is not my slave. We love each other. We have a partnership of equals. Lina has never discussed having a child, but if she did - or if I did, for that matter - it would be because we wanted to share the joys of motherhood, not to fulfill an inheritance requirement."

"I knew it!" The Duchess threw her hands into the air in frustration. "You're no better than that French tart! Concerned only with yourself, determined to steer my Vangie to disaster! You won't share her with a man. You're afraid that she might leave you to pursue a normal life. That's the truth. Admit it!"

Rhiannon stood up, too. "I am an English tart, not a French one." The reference comparing her to Victoire made her angry. Neverthless, she made an effort to stay polite. "And I won't dignify the rest of your remarks with any answer except this: Lina's life is her own. I could no more command her to obey you than I could command her to fly to the moon."

"You refuse me, then?"

"I do."

"Ungrateful hussy! After all of the consideration I've shown you! You, hardly better than a woman of the streets..."

"Please, madam!"

"It was a filthy tribade that corrupted my daughter in the beginning. Now you complete her ruination, and the ruination of a heritage that has stood for centuries. Are the proud shades of Inishglen to be destroyed without regard?" The Duchess' eyes were feverishly bright.

"Lina is her own woman. I refuse to help you reduce her to a... a... a brood mare!" Rhiannon spat out the last words.

"You are nothing better than a parasite, sucking the life's blood from my daughter. When she has no more money, will you give her one last kiss before you find a new victim to drag down into the gutter?"

"It may surprise you to know, Your Grace, that I have an independent income." Rhiannon's tone was freezing. "Before you ask, it was inherited from my aunt. There. Now you have one less accusation to make. Do you wish to continue insulting me? You might take exception to the color of my hair next."

"Impudent wench."

"Now I must be frank, Your Grace. I love Lina. She loves me. We are both filthy tribades, and enjoy our intimacy to the fullest. It may interest you to know that Lina corrupted me, not the other way 'round. I had only the faintest idea of what love between two women could be like before I met her. Of course, we've both learned a lot since then."

"I do not have to listen to this." The Duchess pressed a hand to her bosom, her face gone pale.

"But you should." Rhiannon made an effort to calm herself. "Do you honestly believe that I - who love Lina more than life - would do anything to harm her? If Lina wanted a child, I would help her, support her in any capacity she would allow. God help me, but if Lina fell in love with anyone else, man or woman, and wanted to sever our ties... I would let her go. Her happiness means everything to me. You accuse me of holding her back, of making her something she is not, forcing her to choose. You couldn't be more wrong. Where she leads, I follow - to the end of my days and beyond, if possible. We're not merely lovers. We're mates of heart and soul and mind. You can choose not to believe that if you wish, but you will never hear a more honest answer."

Rhiannon cocked her head and added, "If you've said these terrible things to Lina herself, as you've said them to me, then I don't wonder that she resists you so strongly. Why should she do anything to please you, when all you do is insult the one she loves? No one likes to hear such things."

"Even if they happen to be true?"

"I can't prove anything to you. Love doesn't come with legal documents and signed papers with wax seals. You can't counter it with logic or demands. It just is." Rhiannon pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Instead of ordering Lina around like a servant, try talking to her. Persuading her. Use honey instead of vinegar. I can't promise that she'll agree - in fact, I'm fairly certain that she does not have the patience for motherhood, or the inclination - but if it means that much to you, she might listen."

The Duchess sat down abruptly on the edge of the bed. She looked exhausted, as if every ounce of energy had been drained from her body in an instant. "You don't know what it's like," she said. "Vangie is a widow, but hardly a respectable one. Even here in the country, one hears tales. I'm almost mad with worry sometimes. Her life is a scandal. Bad enough that she pursues a man's trade, but when it comes to me that she's taken up with a common woman... that they're lovers... well, it is easier to think the worst of a stranger than of one's own child."

"If it helps, Victoire deceived Lina most cruelly. Please excuse my language, but Victoire was not a tart - she was and is a bloodthirsty bitch of the first water, and if I get the chance, I'm going to thrash her within an inch of her life. And then I'll take that inch!" Rhiannon did not resume her chair, but continued to stand. "I think that the problem has less to do with Lina's heir than with the way she chooses to live her life. If she was married - even a marriage of convenience - and her affairs were discreetly conducted, there would be no public scandal. Am I correct?"

"I do care about Inishglen. But you're right, much as I hate to admit it." The Duchess gave her a tired smile. "I push Vangie because I'm terrified of what I'll hear next. She pushes back, and the cycle continues."

"Oh, we've had our share of comments, but most people stay silent to our faces. Polite society simply does not acknowledge our bond. What's said behind our backs doesn't need to be acknowledged. You're a Duchess. You don't have to listen to what anyone says. You can simply walk away."

"The gossip is terrible. It drives me to distraction. Consorting with thieves and murderers, getting involved in police matters... I was going mad. Every bit of news was worse than the next." The Duchess eased back into a stack of pillows, swinging her feet up onto the bed. "My friends told me the most outlandish things. Vangie was hardly forthcoming when I asked her if the rumors were true. I assumed the worst. It is hard to admit that one's daughter is... that she does not have normal appetites."

"Talk to her," Rhiannon urged. "Lina has been suffering for a long time because she believes she doesn't have her mother's love. She may act indifferent, but I assure you, the pain is real however she may conceal it."

"I know. Just as I knew she would come if I asked it of her."

"How did you make the acquaintance of such a creature as Bazhanova?"

The Duchess pinched the bridge of her nose and grimaced. "She came to me with letters of introduction from the Countess of Andover. I haven't seen Georgina since my husband passed away, but one can hardly ignore a request from one's peer. Georgina gushed about the Madam's extraordinary spiritual skills. It seemed difficult to believe."

"Yet you've recommended the Madam to your friends. The Earl of Kinslainne, for example. You must have been impressed."

"I was, at first. Since then, I have been living in an inescapable nightmare." The Duchess motioned Rhiannon closer. "I am watched day and night. If I displease them, they withhold my medicine." She reached out a scrawny arm and grasped Rhiannon's wrist; her fingers were like claws, her eyes burned with a feverish light. "I must have my medicine. Do you understand that? Tell Vangie. Make her understand!"

Rhiannon patted the back of the woman's hand. "I'm sure that Lina will do her best for you."

"I loathe Madam Bahzanova," the Duchess said, "but I must have my medicine. Vangie must be made to know that. You will tell her."

"Don't worry, Your Grace." Rhiannon was becoming concerned by the Duchess' sudden surge of energy. "Have you eaten breakfast? We missed you downstairs."

The Duchess let out a heavy sigh and fell back onto the pillows. "I have no appetite today."

"You should try to eat something."

"Leave me alone! You are not yet mistress here, nor will you ever be!"

At that moment, the maid returned, a half dozen panting pugs at her heels. The little dogs swarmed upon the bed, threw themselves down next to their mistress, and stared at Rhinnon with liquid black eyes. Princess Annastasiia followed, bearing a slender wooden case under her arm.

"Are you my nurse now, as well as Vangie's whore?" the Duchess asked Rhiannon spitefully, her voice laden with venom. "Get out, Miss Moore. I would command you to leave Inishglen entirely if I thought you might obey."

Rhiannon rose slowly. Two spots of vivid color burned in her cheeks, but she forced her anger down. Lina's mother was ill, enslaved by addiction and fear. They had connected for a brief moment, joined by their love for one person. It seemed that their brief understanding was over. Rhiannon curtsied formally to the Duchess and took her leave.

As the door closed behind her, she caught a glimpse of Annastasiia hovering over the Duchess' prone form. It reminded her of a malevolent vampire and its helpless prey, caught in the grip of unimaginable horrors. Rhiannon found herself feeling sorry for the Duchess, despite her insults.

Soon, she thought. Soon your nightmare will be over, Your Grace.

And then she recalled how the Duchess had villified her. How adamantly she had insisted that Lina be wed - if only a sham wedding - to produce an heir. How much she resented Rhiannon for preventing her daughter from doing her duty.

And when your nightmare ends, shall mine begin? Am I selfish to want to keep her for myself? In spite of my brave words, I don't think I could stand sharing Lina with someone else.

Troubled, Rhiannon walked slowly down the corridor. She somehow felt as if she was being disloyal to her lover by merely considering the situation. Guilt began to eat at her. Rhiannon's stomach gave a kind of hiccup and unshed tears burned in her eyes.

From things that I've heard, the Duchess has been reminding Lina of her duty for a long time. After years of refusal, why would she suddenly change her mind and abandon me? Has she ever given me cause to believe that she might be unfaithful? Has she ever, by word or deed, made me think she might leave?

Of course not, came the sensible reply. Her behavior is entirely the opposite. You know Lina dotes upon you. How can you doubt it? Has she not shown you in a hundred ways how much you mean to her? She nearly died when you left her in Egypt. Stop being so morbid, girl! You have an important task and no time for distractions.

And yet her doubts lingered, like a ghostly taste of foulness on the tongue.

Rhiannon met Lina coming out of the Ophelia Room. "How is Mrs. Murdle?"

"Damning calf's foot jelly and milk toast and gruel with language rarely heard from ladies of her advanced years," Lina answered cheerfully. Noting her partner's expression, she continued, "What is the matter, my dear? Has Mother been horrid to you?"

"Lina, your mother is very concerned about Inishglen. You're her heir and..."

"Oh, dear Lord!" Lina groaned. "What nonsense! I had not supposed you would be so susceptible to such poppycock..." She took a closer look at Rhiannon and exclaimed, "But you are!" and swept her into an embrace.

Rhiannon's sigh was muffled against her taller partner's bosom.

"My dear, you should not take on so. My mother has her own ideas of duty and her own concerns. I have no objection to giving her aid when required, but I will not permit her to dictate my life. I love you with all my heart and soul. Nothing will change that."

"Haven't you ever considered it? Having a baby, I mean," Rhiannon said, tilting her head to look into Lina's face.

"Not particularly." An arm still wrapped around Rhiannon's waist, Lina led her to the Perdita Suite and closed the door. "My dear, it was never my wish to have children. Most unwomanly of me, perhaps, but I have never felt that tender yearning."

"What will happen to Inishglen?"

"To the best of my knowledge, the estate and title will pass onto a cousin when I am cold in my grave and beyond petty mortal concerns. It matters naught to me. But you must not allow Mother to upset you."

"I'm sorry, love. It's just that she was so very desperate!"

"And so very insulting," Lina added with a knowing grin. "Her Grace has peppered me with the ammunition available to a mother's arsenal - guilt, blandishments, cajolements, outright commands - all without success. I have not yielded before; can you truly imagine that I will yield now, when I have you by my side? The one who is my life, the other half of my soul! No, my dear. Mother has no hold over me. She has no hold over you, either. Did she appeal to your sense of duty? Did she make mention of your selfishness in refusing to give me up into a man's embraces?"

"Yes, all of that, and she called me a tart, to boot." Rhiannon's lips tugged into a smile, then the expression faded into a frown. "Her Grace reminded me of Victoire. She was very bitter about it."

"Ah, yes. Not my first defiance, but my greatest," Lina said.

"Your mother still loves you."

Lina's emerald eyes flashed. "In spite of my appalling lapses into scandal?"

"Her Grace is worried about you."

"Are you acting as my mother's apologist?" Lina paused at Rhiannon's stricken look. "No, my dear. I should not have snapped at you." She sighed and sat down in a chair. Her jade cigarette case was on a table at her elbow. She extracted an Egyptian cigarette and lit it with a lucifer. This operation concluded, she said, "I will be glad when this affair is done."

Rhiannon opened the window a crack. "So will I."

"I wonder how Holmes is getting along on his Swiss holiday? When we return to London, we must call upon him in Baker Street."

"Yes, I would enjoy seeing Mr. Holmes again." Rhiannon settled down in chair opposite her lover. She knew her partner was trying to change the subject. "Lina, this thing between you and your mother has never been settled."

"Nor will it be, my dear." Lina crossed her legs and slouched elegantly in the chair, wreaths of cigarette smoke framing her beautiful face. "My mother is strong-willed; moreover, she is used to having her own way and is not accustomed to being defied. I am equally stubborn and determined to live my life the way that I choose, not a dull pseudo-existence designed to please the Duchess of Inishglen. Mother feels that her reputation is besmirched by my so-called scandalous behavior; this is the crux of her distress, not the disposition of a moldy old castle many years after she has gone on to her Heavenly reward. She wishes me to have a normal life as defined by the dictates of a small-minded and narrow thinking society. I refuse to do so. We cannot reach a happy compromise. Here endeth the matter."

"That's very sad, love."

"Not particularly. Mother and I were never friends. When I was a child, I was treated hardly better than a servant, expected to obey her every command and bow to her every whim. I was never a dutiful daughter, my dear. The flame of rebellion burned too brightly to be extinguished. The last time I succumbed to her blandishments, I married a much older man and was widowed on the wedding night. This gave me an independent fortune - for which I am profoundly grateful - but the marriage simply confirmed to Mother that my unnatural tendencies were a passing fancy."

Rhiannon moved in a rustle of silk skirts towards the dressing table. "Can't you make some kind of peace with her?"

"As long as one of us breathes air, I fear it is not to be." Lina rose and flicked her cigarette out of the window. "My dear, I beg you will not dwell too heavily on the Duchess. Dismiss her from your mind." She drew closer to Rhiannon, reached out and stroked her cheek. "My affection and regard for you are not changed, nor will they ever be diminished, in this life or the next. I want no other but you. I love no other but you. Do you believe that?"

"Yes," Rhiannon said softly. She turned to face Lina and a smile curved her mouth into an enticing bow. "But what will the proud shades of Inishglen think?"

"The shades of Inishglen can go to the Devil," Lina murmured, bending her head for a kiss.

Afternoon sunlight slanted through the windows, fell upon the tester bed with its heavy hangings and the two women who lay there together, tangled in sheets and drowsy with love.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Evening came to Inishglen. A blaze of magenta set the sky afire, then the flame of sunset was swallowed up by dusky violet shadows. The gardens were muffled in darkness. Within the castle, dozens of candles were lit to provide pools of light against encroaching nightfall.

Mrs. O'Hara served a plain dinner of lamb and potatoes and peas. Regardless of the cook's unimaginative fare, an excellent bottle of claret was opened and shared; even the Duchess, who had been sullenly uncommunicative during dinner, acquiesced to a glass. Rhiannon enjoyed it immensely, as well as the imported chocolates that were produced at the end of the meal. Princess Annastasiia turned up her nose at wine and chocolate, and demanded champagne.

After the table had been cleared, Lina went upstairs to sit with Mrs. Murdle, leaving Rhiannon alone with Annastasiia.

As Rhiannon had nothing to say to the simian creature, she retired with a book to the Long Gallery. It was nearly ninety feet long, sporting a massive marble fireplace, blue carpeting and leaded-glass windows with Gothic arches. In contrast to the impressive size of the room, the furniture was delicate, all papier-mâché and mother-of-pearl, painted with pastel flowers and bows. Rhiannon found a chair, pulled it closer to the fireplace, and began to read. She decided it was relatively safe here; there were only two doors, one at each end of the Gallery, and no one could approach her without being seen.

Rhiannon curled up with her book and was soon entranced. She remained dimly aware of the snap and crackle of the fire, the scratching of rose bushes against the windows. In deference to social custom, she had put up her hair; a long curling red-gold lock had come down from the pins, and she absently twined it around her finger while she read.

The door at one end of the Gallery suddenly banged open and she was startled out of her trance. Rhiannon fumbled in her pocket for her pistol, but subsided when she recognized the angular figure of Flora, the maid. She rose, her book dangling from one hand.

"Her Ladyship wishes to see you in the Ophelia Room," Flora said. The maid's eyes were red and swollen, her face blotchy with tears. She was still mourning her uncle Grenville's passing.

"I'll go up this minute," Rhiannon answered. As she passed Flora, she put a hand on the maid's thin shoulder. "I'm sorry for your loss. Do you have other family in the area?"

Flora sniffled. "Aye," she said, and paused. She glanced around the Gallery in a theatrical manner, then leaned closer to Rhiannon and said in a trembling whisper, "Be careful, m'lady. There's dark doing's afoot."

"Thank you," Rhiannon replied, careful to keep her tone as serious as the maid's. "Do you have any particulars?"

Eyes rolling, Flora shook her head, lips compressed into a tight line.

Rhiannon gave her what she hoped was a reassuring smile and left the Long Gallery.

She met no one going up the stairs; the servants were in their quarters for the evening, although some thoughtful soul had left a candle burning in a holder on a table in the hall. In the gloom, the ancestral portraits seemed to take on a more sinister air, as though the old masters and mistresses of Inishglen had been transformed by moonlight in the manner of werewolves and other terrifying creatures of the night. The eyeslit of a suit of armor held mysterious glimmerings in its shadowy depths. Every rustle, every sigh of air, was charged with evil intent.

Rhiannon suppressed a shiver and continued on her way, though not without looking over her shoulder from time to time.

The Ophelia Room had watery green paper on the walls, watery green satin on the furniture, and watery green panes in the single window. A rose bowl on the dresser emitted the faint scent of lavender; a bundle of dried flowers, tied with a purple ribbon, hung on the bedpost. The ceiling had been painted with a mural of streaming weeds and swirling waterlilies - the view one might expect if one were drowned and lying at the bottom of a stream. Rhiannon found the decoration rather horrid despite the artificial cheer of chintz on the bed.

"'There's rosemary, that's for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember. And there's pansies, that's for thoughts. There's fennel for you, and columbines. There's rue for you, and here's some for me. We may call it herb of grace o' Sundays. Oh, you must wear your rue with a difference. There's a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died. They say he made a good end,'" Rhiannon quoted under her breath, staring at the bedspread which bore brightly woven representations of the mentioned flowers.

Mrs. Murdle was an anonymous lump under it, with just the crown of her lace ruffled nightcap visible.

Lina smiled and said quietly, "'But long it could not be till that her garments, heavy with their drink, pulled the poor wretch from her melodious lay to muddy death,'" she said, also quoting Opheila from Hamlet. "This room used to give me nightmares as a child. A distinct lapse in my grandmother's otherwise excellent taste, I fear. Well, my dear, are you ready?"

"I am." Rhiannon patted her pocket with her free hand.

Lina gestured towards the bed, where a sonorous snoring could be heard. "Mrs. Murdle is sleeping. Will you be alright alone?"

"I'm sure it will be fine." Rhiannon took Lina's place in a chair next to the bed; her back was to the bedroom door. "Is there anything that needs to be done?"

"I think not. Be careful, my dear." Lina bent down and kissed her. "I will be in the Perdita Suite should you need me. 'And of all Christian souls, I pray God. God be wi' ye'," she continued with another quote.

"Good-night, love. Flights of angels sing thee to thy rest."

Lina left the Ophelia Room, shutting the door behind her.

Rhiannon sighed and turned back to her book. Called A String of Pearls, it was all about the demon barber of Fleet Street, Sweeney Todd. Despite the lurid passages, she could not recapture the literary magic that had held her spellbound in the Long Gallery. Bored, she found a some out-of-date ladies' magazines in the drawer of the writing desk and perused them for a few minutes, accompanied by Mrs. Murdle's snores.

The candle burned low, but Rhiannon was feeling too lazy to replace it. Her limbs were heavy, her eyelids weighted with iron. A warmth infused her body, lulling her with the promise of sweet oblivion. The effort to remain awake was too much. Sleep beckoned, an irresistible temptation that could not be denied. She yawned hugely, the muscles in her jaw stretching to an uncomfortable limit, and subsided into the chair, her thoughts drifting. At last, she fell asleep.

She would never know what waked her - a soft scuffling footstep on the carpeted floor, a breath of air against her neck, a creak from the door - but it was enough to rouse Rhiannon from sleep, though not completely. There was a foul taste in her mouth. She blinked, somewhat confused at finding herself in total darkeness. Rhiannon's back and shoulders were aching from her unnatural position in the chair. One of her legs had gone completely numb, with prickling pins and needles in her toes. She tried to sit up but could not find the strength; her muscles were flaccid, reluctant to respond.

Making a supreme effort, Rhiannon rolled her head to one side and focused. There was a faint greenish shimmer in the air, a glowing form that slowly evolved into that of a woman dressed in veils and floating gauze. Rhiannon could not make out her face. The woman glided across the floor slowly, her movements as stealthy as a hunting cat's. In her hand was a hypodermic syringe. The steel needle glittered like a streak of green light, reflecting the luminescence of the woman's costume.

Rhiannon forced her hand to move, trying to reach the pocket of her dress. Her pistol was inside, the little mother-of-pearl handled gun that Sherlock Holmes had given her. She gritted her teeth, ignoring the throbbing headache in her temples. Her fingers refused to obey, scrabbling feebly and without purpose. Frustration and fear boiled within her as the figure came closer.

She tried to scream, but her tongue was swollen, her mouth too dry for any sound other than a croak. Beads of cold sweat prickled her skin; her stomach felt cold and hollow. Desperately, Rhiannon tried to find something - anything - to use as a weapon. The only object she could locate was the book she had been reading, which was still in her lap. Her arm was too paralyzed for movement, but she was able to use her wrist.

The woman came closer, a few steps at a time. Her veils seethed about her form, emitting a dim and sickly light that was reminiscent of grave mold. Had it not been for the all-too-human arm, upraised with its chosen weapon in hand, the figure might have been that of a wandering spirit from beyond the grave. She stalked nearer, gauzy skirts whispering a soft susurration that was more blood-curdling than a death knell.

Summoning up all of her strength, Rhiannon grasped the book between her fingers and tried to heave it at the bed. To her dismay, the volume did not fly far, but fell clattering to the floor near her foot. The needle loomed larger in her vision as the veiled woman reached her. A hand fastened itself in her hair and pulled her head forward. Pins pattered down to the carpet. Rhiannon gasped, trying with all her might to struggle, emit some sound, defend herself against the loathsome foe that sought her death. Her pulse throbbed loudly in her ears; every heartbeat shook her ribcage until it seemed amazing that no one else could hear the deafening roar.

A cold point touched the back of her neck. Rhiannon tried to twist away but was prevented by the cruel hold on her hair. Her scalp was on fire. The pain was nothing next to the knowledge that she was about to die. Lina! she shrieked inside her mind. Lina, where are you? Her feet pushed feebly against the floor. Lina! I need you!

There was a clock on the mantlepiece, a gilded French fantasy of half-clad nymphs and gleaming swans set in a green marble case. It suddenly played a glassy tinkling tune that startled her attacker; the woman jumped, cruelly twisting Rhiannon's hair, and the needle withdrew. The clock chimed the hour with three strokes of its bells. Rhiannon managed to get up a hand and grab the woman's wrist. Her grip was weak but she dug in with her nails, gouging and clawing. She felt skin tear and flesh break; the hold on her hair was withdrawn. Savage triumph welled up in Rhiannon's breast. She had marked her murderer and wished she could do more than that. If only she could get her pistol! If only Lina would come...

A fear more horrible than that of dying made Rhiannon nearly choke. What if Lina had been attacked earlier? What if the woman she loved was laying dead in the Perdita Suite? Stabbed, or perhaps poisoned or strangled? Or bludgeoned to death, that beautiful oval face made into a gory ruin, sightless emerald eyes open forever in silent apology. The very thought made Rhiannon's blood boil.

Renewed determination and absolute fury lent some measure of strength to her. When the faintly glowing hand came close to her face, Rhiannon fastened her teeth into it. She ground down with all the power in her jaw, deliberately doing as much damage as possible. Delicate bones splintered; she tasted the rusty iron tang of blood in her mouth. Her attacker let out a shriek and stabbed her with the syringe. The needle broke off against her clavicle but Rhiannon was too far gone to feel it. A fist landed hard against her cheek, momentarily dazzling her, and the woman pulled her wounded hand away. When the stars had faded from her vision, Rhiannon could see dark blobs and splatters on the woman's skirts and veil, and she grinned. It was blood, the normal crimson color turned black by green luminescent paint on the gauze.

Veils trembling, the woman took a step backwards and spat out an oath that made Rhiannon's eyes widen.

Her attacker was not a woman at all. The voice belonged to a young man, and it was not Tatev!

"You bitch!" he whispered viciously. "You dirty little bitch! You'll pay for this."

Rhiannon spat out a shred of flesh - his flesh, she thought smugly - and tried to reply, but the blood she had swallowed made her throat even drier.

The man approached again, cradling his torn hand against his chest. "I'm going to kill you slowly," he said, his voice barely audible but chilling nonetheless. "Inch by inch. There are places in this castle where no one will hear you."

He placed the glass syringe against the bedpost and deliberately applied pressure until it broke in half. Holding up the jagged end he still held, he said, "I'll take your eyes first, bitch. Tatev won't care. Then we'll have some real fun."

And try as she might, Rhiannon still could not scream.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Rhiannon managed to heave herself out of the chair, falling heavily on the floor with a useless arm beneath her. Her head banged against the side of the bed with enough force to make her see stars again, a whole galaxy blossoming against the blackness behind her eyelids. Bile rushed to the back of her throat and she retched, a spasm that threatened to tear her apart.

The veiled young man swooped down and roughly turned her over. He pressed the sharp edge of the broken syringe just below one of her eyes, a spike of pain that made every muscle in her body tighten. Involuntary tears welled up and spilled over. The young man let out a breathy chuckle.

"Not yet, bitch. No crying. I want to enjoy your tears in private."

Rhiannon put every ounce of her hatred and defiance into a glare that she hoped he could see.

There was a scritching sound and a lucifer match flared beside the bed, a pinpoint of light that was startling in the darkness. The young man jumped up and paused. Standing there was a tall gentleman, clean-shaven, with sharply angular features. In one hand he held the match; in the other, a large pistol which was pointed at the veiled figure. Rather ridiculously, he had on a ruffled woman's nightcap - the same that Mrs. Murdle had been wearing - and was wearing a cotton nightdress of the kind normally donned by respectable old women. His lean shanks poked out of the bottom and his feet were bare, but his dignity was unassailable.

"Put it down, boy," he said. There was a candle on the nightstand; he lit it and shook out the lucifer.

The young man hesitated.

"I said, put it down!" the man thundered. His voice had a trace of the musical Irish accent. "You killed my wife, you disgusting little craven, and I will not hesitate to shoot. 'Twill save the hangman the trouble."

The broken syringe fell to the floor and rolled beneath the bed. From her prone position, Rhiannon could see it laying there an arm's length away. She could also see a veritable army of dust balls lurking in the shadows. Ridiculously, her mind fastened on a thought - if the Duchess knew how slovenly her upstairs maids were, she would probably let the lot of them go. A giggle bubbled in her chest; she began to cough and then to retch again. The man squatted down and used his free hand to turn her over on her side before she could choke. His pistol never wavered from the veiled figure.

When Rhiannon's vomiting had subsided, he stepped over her and, without hesitation or changing his expression, neatly clubbed the young man on the side of his head with the butt of the pistol. The would-be murderer collapsed, gauze skirts puffing out around him. The man returned to Rhiannon.

"Connor, Earl of Kinslainne," he said, introducing himself with a slight air of apology, as though he had committed a social breach while attending a hunt ball. "My apologies, Miss Moore. Evidently my supper gruel was drugged. I ate only a few mouthfuls but it was enough to slow my wits for a time."

Rhiannon rolled her eyes at him. She ached all over; her bruised cheek was a screaming mass of pain and the cut under her eye was burning like a fiery brand. Her headache had trebled and she thought her skull might explode. Her concern was not for herself, however. She worked her mouth, trying to say Lina's name.

At that moment, the door to the bedroom burst open and Lina staggered inside, clutching at the frame. Her face was as pale as ashes, even to the lips. The skin under her wide green eyes appeared bruised. Her glance swept the room, fixed on Rhiannon's legs - the only portion of her partner's body that she could see. A low scratchy moan escaped her. Lina took a step into the room, clearly staying upright only by dint of an extreme effort. Her fingers curled into claws as that burning gaze sought and found the unconcious veiled figure. Pure incandescent fury blazed forth in her expression. Had the young man been awake, he might have died of sheer fright on the spot. There was the promise of death, and more than death, in Lina's face.

"Miss Moore is alive, Lady St. Claire," said the Earl coolly. "Slightly injured and suffering from the effects of a drug but very much among the living."

Rhiannon inhaled sharply and tried to call her lover's name. It came out as a forced whisper. Sweet relief caused more tears to trickle down her cheeks. She could not see Lina, but knowing she was there and unharmed made her want to thank God as fervently and sincerely as possible.

There was a thud and Rhiannon's heart skipped a beat. She looked up at the earl, who shook his head. "The vapors, b'Christ! I never thought I'd live to see the day."

Rhiannon sighed and hoped that she would regain the use of her limbs in time to apply smelling salts and lavender water.

Evangeline St. Claire - perhaps for the first time in her life - had fainted.

The Earl, now dressed in a more normal suit of clothing, took charge of the proceedings. Under his able command, Tatev and Annastasiia were rounded up by a gang of beefy footmen and placed under lock and key in the scullery. Although there was some initial hysteria - Flora, for example, was frightened nearly out of her wits and had to be restored with a generous application of brandy - the Earl of Kinslainne proved to the master of the situation. His orders, delivered with the sort of self-confidence only a nobleman could achieve, came as a relief to the servants. The Earl did not, however, summon Inishaye's village constable to deal with the miscreants. Instead, following Lina's wishes, he sent a telegram to the District Inspector of the Royal Irish Constabulary, calling upon that worthy to attend the proceedings.

Rhiannon's injuries were minor, although digging the broken needle out of her collarbone had cost her no little pain. The wound was dressed with sticking plaster but she had refused similar treatment for the small cut under her eye. Nevertheless, Lina insisted on cleaning it, wincing visibly each time the other woman made a sound.

"The drug was in the claret, my dear," Lina said, carefully applying a cream to the area beneath Rhiannon's eye with a bit of cotton. "A sedative of some kind. I should have known. Since our arrival, I have seen the so-called princess consume vast quantities of spirits without delicacy of any kind. Quantity rather than quality appears to be her motto. At any rate, her refusal of claret at dinner should have been a warning signal to me, had I not been so preoccupied with other matters."

Her partner sounded so guilty and woebegone, Rhiannon laid a soothing hand on her shoulder. "It's alright, love. None of us knew."

"But I should have anticipated this!" Lina straightened abruptly and slammed the small medicine pot on the table with enough force to crack it. "My error nearly cost you your life. Had it not been for the Earl..."

"It was your idea to bring His Grace into Inishglen," Rhiannon pointed out. Suddenly, she giggled. "How on earth did you convince him to don that disguise and pretend to be Mrs. Murdle?"

Lina shrugged. "Once I explained to Connor that his wife's death most likely owed more to cunning design than nature, he was determined to do everything within his power to bring her killer to justice. Disguise was the only method of introducing him into the household without arousing Tatev's suspicions. He did have to shave off his mustache, though. Poor Connor. It was a magnificent example and I believe he parted with it quite reluctantly."

"I'm grateful that he doesn't like gruel, otherwise..."

"My dear!" Lina interrupted, suddenly falling to her knees at Rhiannon's feet. Guilt had been eating at her and she could keep it concealed no longer. "You placed yourself in hideous danger and were nearly killed by my incompetence. I underestimated a dangerous enemy. Oh, when I think how I have made you suffer! Every bruise is a reproach that sears me to the core."

"When you didn't come, I was just as worried about you," Rhiannon said.

"I should have been watching as we agreed. Instead, I fell asleep!"

"We were drugged, love. That wasn't your fault."

"I should have known!" Lina's face was contorted with grief.

"Listen to me." Rhiannon stood up, torn between comforting her lover and giving her a good smack. "I'm a grown woman, Evangeline St. Claire. More to the point, we're equal partners. I knew there was a risk and I took my chances. I'm still alive and, apart from some soreness and a headache, I'm fine. I wish you would stop acting like a tortured martyr every time I get a bump."

Tears sprang into Lina's eyes. She look so much like a hurt child that Rhiannon almost relented. Almost. Instead, she crossed her arms over her chest and did her best to seem severe.

After a long moment, Lina finally replied, "Your point is well made and taken to heart, my dear. Yet you must allow me some small portion of blame."

"As long as you don't start wearing hair shirts and brooding all the time. You aren't an almighty, omniscient goddess. Villains aren't always considerate enough to comply neatly with your plans. I accept that and so should you."

"Very well. I will endeavor to keep that in mind."

"Get up, you idiot." Rhiannon held out her hands but Lina rose of her own accord. As soon as she was on her feet, the taller woman embraced her partner tightly.

"I am so grateful that I did not lose you, my dear."

"I feel the same." Rhiannon smiled against Lina's bosom. "Now we had better go and see about your mother."

"Ah, yes, indeed. My mother." Lina pulled away and looked down into Rhiannon's face. "Can we not run away instead?" she asked plaintively.

Rhiannon shook her head. "I'm afraid not, love."

Lina frowned and squared her shoulders. "Very well. Let us beard the lioness in her den, my dear. Procrastination will likely make things worse." Her eyes were hard as green agates.  "I do not have a resentful nature, however it is about time that Mother faced some home truths, and I will be the one to deliver them."

Rhiannon almost felt sorry for the Duchess.

Almost.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

As they walked along the hallway towards the Duchess' room, they could hear the shrill yapping of pugs. Halfway there, the two women met the Duchess' maid, stumbling along with a pack of the little dogs swirling around her ankles. The maid had a worried expresssion on her face.

"What's the matter, Margaret?" Lina asked.

Margaret gave her a grateful look. "Her Grace is very ill, my lady. I wanted to fetch a doctor but she refused."

"Leave it to me. Take the dogs outside where they won't disturb anyone. And Margaret? My mother will be fine."

"Thank you, my lady." The maid, seemingly relieved to have the responsibility taken off her hands, swept down the stairs with her curly-tailed charges bounding behind her.

Lina continued on her way to the Duchess' bedroom door. She did not bother to knock but barged straight inside with Rhiannon coming smartly on her heels. The door was shut and bolted before the Duchess could react, but when she did, it was with unmistakable wrath.

"What do you think you're doing, Vangie? How dare you!" the Duchess said in her most  freezing tones.

"Be quiet, Mother," Lina said, ignoring the shocked look on the older woman's face. She spoke firmly and to the purpose. "I know that your 'medicine' is heroin and the Madam - or should I say, Vasily Tatev - is your supplier. You dare speak to me of honor and duty? You dare take umbrage against my life? You dare insult my dearest love, who risked herself to save you? Faugh! Mother, you dare for more than I have ever contemplated!"

While the Duchess was staring at her with wide disbelieving eyes, Lina continued, "You did whatever Tatev asked of you because you needed your medicine. Allowed your friends to become victims of a vicious, heartless criminal who used their grief to his own financial advantage. That is not the worst of it. No, do not speak! You will listen until I am finished."

"Am I to be abused in my own home by my own daughter? Considering the company you keep, I'm not surprised," the Duchess sniffed disdainfully.

"Be silent!" Lina roared, advancing on the bed. Her emerald eyes flashed with ire. "Do you condemn me for consorting with unsavory types while you, yourself, have played accomplice to murder?"

"Murder?" The Duchess shrank back into her pillows. In the uncertain early morning light, she looked older, more vulnerable, tiny as a doll in the huge old bed. "You are mad."

"Am I? Have you forgotten Jessica, wife of the Earl of Kinslainne? She was killed by Tatev and his accomplices."

"Her heart...," the Duchess faltered.

"No, Mother. She was killed, just as Grenville was killed, because she saw too much."

"Grenville? Of course." The Duchess plucked at the bedclothes. "He came in after the seance. He saw the other one."

"You mean the young man who played the Gray Lady?" At the Duchess' weary nod, Lina grimaced. "Grenville died to preserve Tatev's secret."

"I did not kill him!"

"You are just as morally responsible, Mother. Allowing Tatev to remain here, luring your friends into his clutches, obeying his orders, becoming his slave. Do you know how Grenville and Lady Jessica were killed? A needle to the backs of their necks. Rhiannon would have been his next victim."

"I am not to blame," the Duchess whimpered.

"The guilt does not rest solely upon you. Nevertheless, without your compliance, Tatev could not have remained in a position where he could take innocent lives."

"I cannot be held responsible."

"Why did you ask me to come here, Mother?" The anger had faded from Lina's voice. She sounded neutral, as though she was suppressing an emotional storm by force of will.

The Duchess began to scratch her arms. "I was trapped. I knew Tatev was a criminal. The longer he remained, the more likely it was that he would be found out. My reputation would be ruined by the scandal."

"Your reputation," Lina said. "This was all that concerned you?"

"I thought my own daughter would be discreet!" the Duchess flared. "After all the humiliation you've caused me, Vangie, was it unreasonable to suppose that I could seek help from you?"

"No, Mother. I try to aid those who require assistance, whether they are pauper or prince."

"Tatev did not know we were estranged. He had heard of you, of course. Your little escapades in London and abroad are, I suppose, general knowledge among the criminal classes."

"Ah, now we come to the meat of the matter." Lina rubbed her temples, then dropped her hands and confronted the Duchess. "Was it Tatev who suggested that you summon me here? Naturally. I have been a fool many times over. It was not your idea at all, Mother. You did not want me to come. He forced you to write that invitation. Why?"

The Duchess hesitated, biting her lip. Finally, she said, "I don't know. I overheard him once... I think he must have been under orders from someone else. There were telegrams from London."

Rhiannon, who had sitting quietly in a corner, burst out, "Moriarty!"

"A reasonable assumption," Lina said. "Why would Moriarty wish me to be occupied away from London? It must have to do with Holmes."

"Oh, will you kindly refrain from mentioning that man's name in my house?" the Duchess said irritably. "He is too common for words!"

Lina pressed on. "So Tatev was ordered to bring me to Inishglen, and he passed those orders down to you. He dictated that letter you sent. Did he also tell you to drop hints to me, to keep me tantalized and in place long enough for his master's business to be completed?"

"Vangie, I feared for my life. He threatened me, made me wait for my medicine unless I did his bidding. I wrote the letter as he told me. I obeyed him. He said that I must do whatever was necessary to keep you at Inishglen for seven days. But once you were here, I thought you might help me. I couldn't be overt. He would have noticed." The Duchess trembled. "His punishments are terrible. Terrible!"

"You hoped I would act to preserve your precious reputation. At the same time, you gave the appearance of obeying Tatev's directions. That was unexpectedly clever of you, Mother."

"I had no choice!"

"There is always a choice," Lina replied. "And Tatev, in his turn, seized the opportunity to attempt to extract more money from myself or Rhiannon for his spiritual services. Well, greed has brought more schemes to disaster than any other cause. What I fail to understand is what he hoped to accomplish by killing Rhiannon. Surely he must have understood that such an action would result in his own demise!"

"Unless Moriarty ordered it," Rhiannon said. "How well does Tatev really know you, love? He's hardly a member of your social circle."

"A possibility worth considering. Holmes is in Switzerland, pursuing the Napoleon of Crime. This must all be part of Moriarty's plan, if only I could see it through."

"Where is Tatev now?" the Duchess asked, a shade too eagerly. She continued to scratch her arm absently, her nails making welts on the tender flesh.

"He is in the scullery with his two accomplices. Do you know their names?"

"Bert and Sebastian Gowan. I know nothing else about them except they are twins. One played Princess Annastasiia; the other remained hidden in the West Wing and only went out dressed as the Gray Lady."

Lina glanced at her mother keenly. "Are you feeling well?"

"As a matter of fact, no." The Duchess grimaced. "I need my medicine."

"Are you privy to any other details of this case?"

"No! Oh, where is my medicine? Please give it to me."

"In a moment, Mother." Lina's brow was creased in thought. "I believe that Tatev's attempt on Rhiannon's life was not part of Moriarty's ultimate plan. He was supposed to delay us." She turned to Rhiannon. "When you threatened him with blackmail, my dear, Tatev responded in the only reasonable manner he knew. I counted on that reaction to trap him. He counted on that blasted sedative to avoid a struggle. I underestimated his intelligence as, I believe, he underestimated mine."

"Vangie! My medicine!"

"My dear, I believe you will find a case inside Tatev's room," Lina said to Rhiannon. "Please be so kind as to fetch it."

Rhiannon's gaze was questioning. Lina sighed. "What must be, will be. For now."

Lina waited until her partner had left the room before saying to the Duchess, "There is a place in Vienna. An asylum. The doctors there can help you."

"I don't want help," the Duchess said through gritted teeth. "I want my medicine."

"It is not medicine, Mother." Lina let out another weary sigh. "You will be going to Vienna as soon as I can arrange it."

"I will not!"

"Yes, you will. Otherwise, I will be forced to reveal your part in these appalling proceedings to the authorities. You will probably be committed to a lunatic asylum." Lina could not resist adding, "Would that not mar your precious reputation beyond repair or recovery?"

"I hate you," the Duchess spat, writhing on the bed. "I wish you had never been born!"

"You have charged me a damnably high rent for nine month's tenancy," Lina replied with a trace of bitterness. She sat down on the edge of the bed and took her mother by the shoulders. The bones were thin and light, as fragile as a bird's. "I understand addiction. I understand the craving, the pain, the demon within. There was a time when I would have broken every Commandment, committed any vile and degrading act, for a glass of whiskey. Your situation is the same."

"Leave me be, Vangie."

"Friends and family mean nothing to you. Every ounce of your will is focused on a single thing - your next injection. You have no other desires. To receive that 'medicine' you crave, Mother, you would betray your nearest and dearest."

The Duchess curled up into a ball, shaking as spasms wracked her frame. "I tried to warn you," she moaned.

"On Tatev's orders. You have not been concerned with your reputation in some time. Nothing concerns you anymore except your medicine. Let us have no more lies, Mother. No more coy hints and evasions. I will have the truth from you."

"They were watching me. I had to do it."

A muscle beside Lina's mouth twitched. "Did you know that Tatev planned to kill Rhiannon? Did you know he drugged the claret at dinner?"

The Duchess gazed at her daughter, eyes half-closed. Finally, in a small voice that was barely audible, she said, "Yes."

"And did you know he had Lady Jessica killed because she unwittingly discovered his fraud?"

"Yes."

"And Grenville?"

"Yes. Yes! I knew it all!" The Duchess pushed herself up with her hands, locks of hair straggling over her pale, thin face. "He enjoyed telling me everything. Gloating over his triumphs while I begged for my medicine."

Lina leaned forward. "Tatev was told to bring me here by any means necessary. You knew I would come if you played your part correctly, out of curiosity if nothing else. Once at Inishglen, I was kept occupied. Spiritualist clap-trap, my mother in danger if I did not act with discretion, a possible murder and then a real one for me to investigate. A puzzle whose pieces were made to hold me in place." Her expression hardened. "You knew about the threat against Rhiannon and said nothing."

"He wasn't supposed to kill your whore. Bert was going to inject her. She wouldn't have been harmed."

"Except Burt lost his temper, and Tatev did not know that I had introduced the Earl of Kinslainne into the household." At her mother's grimace, Lina continued, "Yes, Connor is here. He has sent a telegram on my instructions. Tatev and his accomplices will be arrested here and charged with the attempted murder of Rhiannon Moore."

"I won't testify against him."

"There is no need. As much as it pains me to admit, I cannot allow Tatev to face justice for the murders of Lady Jessica and Grenville. To do so raises certain issues which do not bear close scrutiny. I refer to your part in the business, Mother. Do you understand the seriousness of your actions? No. I think you are fully aware of the consequences but no longer care."

Just then, Rhiannon entered the room bearing a slender wooden case. The Duchess' dull gaze lit up at the sight of the box. She pushed up her sleeve eagerly and lay back on the pillows.

Lina opened the case and glanced at the gleaming contents. "How much?" she asked her mother in a clipped tone, removing a syringe.

Rhiannon interrupted, "Do you know how to do this?"

"I have seen Holmes with his cocaine. The injection is easily accomplished," Lina said, preparing the hypodermic according to the Duchess' muttered instructions..

The Duchess' scrawny arm was dotted and scarred with pinpricks, the flesh bruised and unhealthy. Lina chose a likely looking place and thrust the needle home. Within a few moments, the deed was accomplished. The Duchess sighed, eyes rolling back in bliss, and sank down into the bedclothes with a dreamy smile,

Rhiannon shuddered. "This is horrible."

"I know, my dear," Lina replied, putting the implements back into their box. "However, there is no help for it. Until Mother is safely in Vienna, her addiction must be kept pacified. I will engage a nurse, a woman with experience in such matters, to look after her once the travel arrangements have been made. Perhaps Dr. Whitstable knows someone suitable."

"Can she be cured?"

Lina grimaced. "The fiend never dies; it merely sleeps." She gazed at her mother with a spark of sadness in her eyes. "I have no great affection for the woman who bore me. We are not friends. She would have killed you with her own hands to satisfy the demon within. I can never forgive that. However, she is still my mother. I owe her a little consideration for that fact. It is my duty to save her from herself, if I can."

"And Tatev?"

"He will pay for something, my dear. I will see to that." Lina laid the wooden case on the nightstand and rose to her feet. Her fists were clenched and her gaze burned with emerald fire. "He may not be hanged for murder, but by God, he will pay."

Made uneasy by her partner's harsh tone, Rhiannon followed Lina out of the Duchess' room, closing the door behind her.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

As they were going down the stairs, there came the sound of a shot, followed by two more.

Lina swept up her skirts and began to run. Rhiannon came along behind her, prudently removing her own pistol from her pocket. At the bottom of the stairs, the two women pushed through a crowd of footmen and maids. Spotting Mrs. O'Hara, Lina barked, "Well? What is it?"

"In the scullery, my lady," Mrs. O'Hara replied, bobbing her head in the general direction.

They went through the dining room, along the service corridor and into the kitchen. Connor, Earl of Kinslainne, was standing near the open scullery door, his pistol in his hand. Beside him was the maid, Flora.

There was an awful suspicion in Lina's eyes. "What have you done?" she asked the Earl.

"Tatev was trying to escape," he replied calmly.

"From a locked scullery?" Lina's gaze traveled to Flora. "Were you listening at the Duchess' keyhole, Flora? Yes, I think you were."

The maid raised her chin and stared back defiantly, saying nothing.

Rhiannon shoved her pistol back into her pocket. "What happened?"

"Flora overheard me tell Mother that Tatev could not be charged with the murders of Lady Jessica and Grenville," Lina said. "She hastened to inform Connor, who took matters into his own hands."

"The murdering bastards - pardon my language - were trying to escape. I fired a warning shot. When they did not comply, I did what had to be done."

"I heard only three shots," Lina pointed out.

In answer, Connor aimed his pistol at the ceiling and pulled the trigger. The sound of the shot was near deafening. Plaster dust rained down, coating his dark hair with gray powder. "Now you have heard four," he replied.

Lina stepped forward, shouldering him aside, and peered into the scullery. When Rhiannon would have approached, Lina held up a hand to stop her, then relented. "At least it was humanely done. Come and see if you will."

Rhiannon ducked under her partner's arm. Tatev was sprawled on the floor, a bullet hole in his center of his forehead. His limp body reminded her of the dummy they had found in the seance room in the West Wing, the one that had caused her a fright. Deprived of his disguise, sans port wine stain and blue spectacles, Tatev was an ordinary looking man with short-cropped black hair and a growth of stubble on his face. Rhiannon felt a slight thrill of astonishment that the hairy mole nestled against his nose was real and not a theatrical misdirection.

His two accomplices were more pitiable. The Gowan brothers had also removed their bizarre disguises. Like Tatev, they had been shot once between the brows, but the boys retained the innocent appearance of youth. They were small and slender, with faces like angels, pouting lips barely parted, cheeks smooth and tinted with pink. Only the scorched black holes in their foreheads spoiled the pretty picture of two cherubs sleeping peacefully.

Rhiannon put a hand to her mouth; her breath hitched and she said with tears in her eyes, "They're just babies."

"One of those 'babies' was planning to torture you to death, my dear," Lina said with clinical detachment. "Bert and Sebastian Gowan were nearly adults. I suspect that as very young children, they were put on a starvation diet to retard their growth. It is fairly common occurrence among the criminal classes of London. A small-boned and slender person can more easily be lowered down a chimney in order to burglarize a home. There are other reasons, of course, and none of them are good. Believe me, those boys would not have had an ounce of pity if you had fallen into their hands. Spare yourself any grief you may feel on their behalf. This is, perhaps, a kinder ending than they would have received had they continued their careers."

Rhiannon shuddered, then took a closer look, fascinated despite herself. "How did... I mean, Princess Annastasiia was a hunchback."

"Likely a special corset that twisted the spine and altered the posture. The hump was false. We will make a thorough examination of the Ophelia Room later and see what may be found." Lina turned to confront the Earl. "You have deprived the Crown of justice," she said.

"Have I?" His brows met as he grimaced. "Did not my poor Jessica deserve justice? Now her spirit is satisfied, and so am I."

Flora sniffled. When Lina glanced at her, the scrawny maid colored but stood her ground. "He killed my uncle," she said softly, staring down at the floor. "Uncle Alastair didn't deserve that, m'lady."

"True." Lina heaved a sigh and rubbed a hand across her face. "Very well. I cannot change what has already been done. I suppose you had no choice but to fire, Connor, when the criminals attempted escape and ignored your warning. I will testify to hearing four shots, if you wish."

"That is most kind of you, Evangeline." The Earl turned to Rhiannon. "There will be no need for you to suffer the indelicate attentions of the police, Miss Moore. I shall make it clear that you were not involved."

Rhiannon did not know what to say, so she merely replied, "Thank you."

Lina gave the Earl a little bow and left, motioning to Rhiannon to follow.

When they were alone in the service corridor, Lina's shoulders sagged. "Good Lord!"

"I wouldn't have expected the Earl of Kinslainne to be so..."

"Tidy?" Lina smiled at the dumbfounded expression on Rhiannon's face. "My dear, it would have taxed my ingenuity to have Tatev brought up on charges that would lead to his imprisonment. At best, we might have been able to have him sent up for ten years for attempted murder, but he was deucedly clever. I have no evidence that he was the one guiding the so-called Gray Lady. At worst, Tatev might have avoided being charged altogether and left his accomplices to take the blame. He could have gotten off scot free."

"And you approve of murder?"

"No, I do not." Lina shook her head. "However, I did not see Connor shoot those three men in cold blood. I cannot prove that he committed murder any more than I can prove that Tatev did the same."

Rhiannon did not feel very happy about the situation She had not liked Tatev and wanted him to receive his just desserts. On the other hand, Lina was right. The Earl had provided a practical solution to a sticky problem. She decided to drop the subject since there was nothing she could do about it.

Back in the entrance hall, Mrs. O'Hara was waiting, beefy arms folded below her ample bosom. "I'll not step foot into yon kitchen till a priest's been in to bless it," she announced.

"The scullery is off-limits for now," Lina said. "Send someone to the village for cold meat, bread and cheese and the like. A priest can be invited at the same time."

Mrs. O'Hara scowled. "I'd better go myself. This lot," she continued, jabbing a thumb at the other servants clustered together in the hall, "haven't an ounce of sense between 'em."

"Do as you wish. I must compose some telegrams; please collect them before you leave. As for the rest of you, kindly resume your normal duties," she said to the waiting servants. The footmen and maids slowly separated and left the hall.

Rhiannon took Lina's arm. "Come upstairs and lie down, love. You look completely fagged."

"When my business is concluded, my dear, I shall rest. Until then, duty calls." Lina kissed Rhiannon's bruised cheek gently, barely grazing the swollen surface with her lips. "Do go on and enjoy a nap. I will join you when I can."

"All right but don't be too long about it." Rhiannon smiled, then winced as her bruises protested. Blowing a kiss at Lina, she went upstairs, her cream-colored skirts trailing behind her.

With a sigh, Lina went to look for writing paper and a pen.

Much later in the day, some policemen arrived to take charge of the bodies. They were members of the Royal Irish Constabulary, come up from their barracks in Leeford, a town that lay about an hour's train journey to the south of Inishaye village. The District Inspector, Adair, accompanied them. He was a bluff, hearty gentleman with an impressive handlebar mustache, bristling beard and muttonchop sidewhiskers that brushed the collar of his dress tunic.

Adair spent a full five minutes questioning the Earl - or rather, fawning upon him and assuring the peer that the matter would be handled quietly. Adair also sampled the finest crusty port from the Duchess' cellars and smoked one of the Earl's cigars. Lina was present during the interview; she found Rhiannon later and told her all about it.

"There sat a man with more hair than intellect," she said, gesturing to indicate the size of Adair's beard, "puffing on a cigar that was worth more than his week's wages, nodding his head and swallowing Connor's story as if it was the tastiest morsel he had ever consumed. It was, 'Yes, Your Excellency,' and 'No, Your Excellency,' and 'Naturally, Your Excellency.' He did not ask me a single question, my dear. Indeed, Mr. Adair did not deign to notice my existence."

"What will happen now?" Rhiannon asked.

"Mr. Adair will remove the bodies from Inishglen, write one of the reports so favored by policemen in general, and be able to dine out for years with his tale of doing a service for the Earl of Kinslainne. Bah!" Lina threw her hands up into the air. "Perhaps I am being ungrateful, my dear. I should thank God for Mr. Adair. He has saved me the trouble of making potentially awkward explanations. Nor has he evinced any curiosity as to why the Duchess of Inishglen would harbor a criminal like Tatev in her own home. Adair is a markedly unimaginative man. He asks no questions, nor does he seem interested in evidence. As far as he is concerned, Connor acted most bravely and gallantly, saving 'the puir womenfolk' from dastardly criminals. There will be no further inquiry."

Rhiannon smoothed a loose dark curl back over Lina's ear. They were sitting side-by-side on the tall bed in the Perdita Suite. "Did he say anything about the money?"

"I did not see fit to reveal that bit of information." Lina grinned unpleasantly. "Our search of Tatev's room was very fruitful. Over thirty-thousand pounds, and Connor has promised to return it discreetly to those who donated the cash to our false spiritualist. Madam Bahzanova's escapades will remain a dirty little secret among the neighbors."

"And your mother?"

"I have heard from Dr. Hertzog at the asylum in Vienna. He sent a telegram informing me that Mother could be admitted at any time. And Mrs. O'Hara took a note to Dr. Whitstable, who is sending a nurse this evening. Mrs. Ballantyne is experienced, capable, iron disciplined and once worked as a prison wardress, so I have high hopes that she will not permit Mother to run amok on the way to the Continent."

"I'm very sorry about all this, love." Rhiannon snuggled closer, putting an arm around her partner's waist and leaning on her shoulder. "I had hoped that you and your mother might come to an understanding."

"We understand one another all too well, my dear," Lina replied. She paused for a moment, then continued, "I wish that I had been able to question Tatev before Connor shot him. There is still the question of Moriarty's ultimate plan that remains to be solved."

"Well, whatever it was, he didn't succeed."

"No?" Lina's eyes were pools of lambent green, made darker by some private concern. "We shall see, my dear." She blew out a long sigh and fell back onto the bed, pulling Rhiannon down with her. "I want to go home."

"So do I."

Lina turned her head and smiled at her lover. "Do you suppose that Holmes' Swiss holiday has been more pleasurable than our own?"

"I'm sure it has, love. I'm sure it has."

EPILOGUE

Three days later, Dr. Whitstable and Mrs. Ballantyne had taken charge of the Duchess; she would be traveling to Vienna in the grandest style possible, along with her maid, a mountain of baggage and the pack of pugs. The West Wing had been closed up again, much to the servant's relief, and Mrs. O'Hara  was left to supervise while the mistress was away. Once all the details had been worked out, Lina and Rhiannon left Ireland and returned to England.

Lina had not spoken to her mother again, except for a brief and painful good-bye. The Duchess' supply of heroin had been assured by Dr. Whitstable - at least until she arrived at the asylum. She had hardly noticed that her daughter was leaving, so intent was she on the syringe being prepared by Mrs. Ballantyne. Lina walked out of Inishglen without a backward glance.

Rhiannon knew that her lover wished for solitude, and left her alone throughout the journey. She read her book and paid a great deal of attention to Fyvie, which made the wolfhound slobber with delight. Back in London, Rhiannon greeted the sight of their house in Grosvenor Square with heartfelt relief.

Lina went inside first, acknowledging the greeting of their butler, Jackson, with a curt nod. Used to her moods, he did not take offense but instead presented a silver salver heaped with telegram envelopes. Lina took them and retired to her study, strewing her coat and hat on the floor behind her. Rhiannon followed, giving Jackson a warm smile to make up for her partner's rudeness.

The study was cold and musty; no one had lit fires while Lina was away, and there was a thin layer of dust on the mantlepiece and desk. She did not notice this lapse in housekeeping. As Rhiannon entered, she waved a telegram at her. "From Watson!" Lina called, seeming more cheerful. "News from Switzerland, I suppose."

"How many are there?" Rhiannon asked, eyeing the yellow flimsies on the tray.

Lina suddenly frowned. "Eight in all. A most unusual happenstance. Let me sort them through by date... ah, here we are. Let us see how Watson and Holmes are getting along. Perhaps they require our assistance in a case. A pity we were in Ireland, as it is possible that the case has already been solved."

She tore open the envelope and extracted the message. As her eyes darted over the lines, the blood drained from Lina's face. She staggered back, catching her knees on the sofa and sitting down hard. Lina appeared so dazed that Rhiannon was alarmed.

"What is it?" she cried.

Lina did not answer, merely stared ahead, her lips moving soundlessly.

Immediate action was required. Suppressing her curiosity, Rhiannon went to a cabinet, located the brandy decanter, and poured a generous amount into a glass. She pushed it into Lina's hand and urged her to drink. Only when the glass was half empty did Rhiannon carefully take the telegram and read it herself.

As the dire message flashed through her brain, Rhiannon groaned, "Oh, God!" and let the telegram fall to the floor.

It had read, "Lady Evangeline St. Claire - Holmes dead at Reichenbach Falls. Also Moriarty. Come at once. John Watson."

Rhiannon swayed and caught herself on the arm of the sofa. Holmes was dead! This news was so shocking, so unexpected, that she felt a hollow roaring in her ears. Her belly clenched and tears sprang to her eyes.

Holmes was dead!

As if in a dream, she opened the other telegram envelopes and read the messages. Most were variations of the first, urging Lina to come to Switzerland as soon as possible. The final one read simply, "Returning home. No body found. Will meet in Baker Street soonest. Watson."

Lina let out a choked gasp that sounded more animal then human. When she looked at Rhiannon, the raw grief in her expression was like a blow. "Holmes!" she wailed, her face crumpling like a child's. "Holmes!"

Rhiannon threw herself down and took Lina in her arms. The other woman's body was spasming; she sank her fingernails into Rhiannon's arm and cried hysterically.

Jackson opened the door to the study and peered inside. "My lady?"

"Go at once and fetch a doctor," Rhiannon said, stifling her own grief. Lina was completely devestated by the news and needed her to be strong. "At once!"

"Yes, miss." Jackson shut the door and his footsteps could be heard hurrying down the hall.

Rhiannon stroked Lina's hair and made soothing noises while that awful wailing continued.

Holmes was dead!

And she knew that her precious Lina would never be the same again.

THE END

<~~~~~ Return to the Library

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Reproduction or any other usage is strictly forbidden unless negotiated with us.
© Corrieweb 1997- 2005

The Ides of October
by Nene Adams©2004 – all rights reserved

The house is haunted. Shadows dark as night,
With ghostly footfalls stalk from room to room;
And voices doleful as the cries of doom,
Shriek in the darkness, then anon a light
Flashes athwart the windows, fierce and fell,
And red and lurid as the flames of heft.
---Ellen Allerton, Haunted (1894)

London, England 1889

“And I tell you, milady, this house is haunted!” Lord Hartington’s voice rose to a baritone roar that fairly shook the rafters.

His daughter, Victoria, hastened to soothe her father before he could emit another outburst. “Please, sir, have some consideration for your poor nerves!” she fussed, waving a bottle of sal volatile. Hartington knocked the silver-topped bottle out of her hand.

“Leave me be, damme! I’ll not have you playing nursemaid, girl, for I’m not yet in my dotage.” Hartington fixed his bloodshot eyes on Lady Evangeline St. Claire, consulting detective and fellow member of the sang bleu, whom he had summoned to his house in Mayfair on a blustery October afternoon. “I have heard strange noises in the night, milady. I have seen the restless spirit with my own eyes.”

“Have you indeed, milord?” Lina regarded him from beneath the arch of her black brows. “Are you certain that these visitations are more than a bit of undigested beef or a blob of mustard?”

“I assure you that the spirit which haunts me is not a product of Dickens’ fevered imagination,” Hartington retorted. His eldest son, William, a saturnine specimen whose face bore the all-knowing smirk of the young gentleman-about-town, pressed a glass of brandy upon his father. Hartington took it with ill grace and guzzled the contents.

The youngest son, Gerald, shot Lina a beseeching glance, asking her silently to indulge his father’s whim – most likely because the state of Lord Hartington’s temper would have a direct effect on the young man’s future career. She narrowed her eyes but did not acknowledge Gerald’s plea. Instead, the dark-haired lady focused her formidable powers of concentration back on Lord Hartington.

“Describe this spirit you have seen,” she said.

Hartington pursed his lips, considering. “Not too tallish,” he said, squinting thoughtfully. “Not too fattish. Wearing a toga…”

“A toga?” Lina’s eyebrows shot to her hairline.

“Oh, yes… I am not surprised, Lady St. Claire, since London was a Roman city long before our Norman ancestors arrived on the scene.”

“As I recall, you have a valuable collection of Roman coins,” Lina said. She half-turned in her seat and addressed her companion, a pretty red-headed young lady named Rhiannon Moore. “Lord Hartington is acknowledged as one of the foremost numismatists in England, particularly in the area of Roman coinage.”

Rhiannon nodded and asked Hartington, “Do you keep your coins on display or are they in a vault?”

“What’s the bloody use of having a collection of something if you’ve got to keep it in a vault where no one can admire it?” Hartington snorted. “I’ve got the whole of the collection in cases in the exhibit room next to my study.”

“Does not the possibility of burglars disconcert you?” Lina asked.

“Not in the least. I sleep with a loaded pistol on the table beside my bed; my valet and butler are both well-armed with shotguns. Any burglar who dares set foot in Damascus House will be greeted with a hail of lead shot. Now, shall we return to the topic of my home being haunted?”

“Supposing I believe you, milord, what do you wish me to do about it? I am neither an exorcist nor a spiritualist,” Lina said.

“Damme, I want you to find out if this ghost is all humbug or not!”

“Father, please!” objected Victoria. “Remember what the doctor said!”

“Don’t fuss, Vicky,” William said, smirking. “You know that just infuriates him all the more.”

“I beg you will not speak as if I am not sitting here beneath your very noses,” Hartington said, his salt-and-pepper mustache bristling. “Victoria, if you cannot squelch this appalling tendency to treat me as if I have been reduced to an infantile state, you may go to your bedchamber and remain there for the rest of the day.”

Gerald said, “Yes, Vicky, do hush while the gentleman are engaged in business.” This earned him filthy looks from his father, his older brother, and his sister. He subsided, blushing.

Lina sighed. “If I may interrupt this delightful family interlude… milord Hartington, do I understand you correctly? You wish to engage my services in order to determine whether the spirit haunting your home is genuine, or some figment of your imagination?”

“Correct.” Hartington nodded, causing the fringed tassel hanging from his crimson fez to shiver. “My children believe I am ready for the mad-house or, at least, the care of a stout warden to ensure that I do no harm in my fits of lunacy. I believe that this Roman spirit is real, and that I am no more insane than any other gentleman of my class.”

Lina’s lips twitched in what may have been a carefully controlled smile. “If I agree, how do you wish me to proceed?”

“I’ve no idea, damme! I am not a consulting detective or an inquiry agent; I leave such matters in the hands of those who have some inkling of the business. You must proceed as you see fit, milady.”

Lina rose to her feet. Her companion, Rhiannon, echoed her movements. “I shall communicate my decision to you in a few days, Lord Hartington.”

“So be it,” he replied gruffly, and snapped his fingers at Gerald in a clear command for the newspaper the boy was clutching.

Neither he nor any of his children escorted Lina and Rhiannon to the door of Damascus House.

~~~ooo0ooo~~~

The following morning, Lina and Rhiannon were awakened by Solange, their French maid, who came bustling into the bedchamber and whisked apart the red damask curtains to admit weak sunshine into the room.

“Milady! Something terrible has happened to Monsieur Hartington!” Solange said in her sharp Parisian accent. She held a folded sheet of foolscap in her hand.

Lina sat up, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Beside her, Rhiannon made a disapproving grunt and burrowed deeper into the bedclothes, until all that could be glimpsed of the woman was a shock of red-gold hair spread out over the pillow. Lina let the sheet slip down to her waist – she was naked underneath but Solange had been dressing her for years – and accepted the note that the maid thrust at her.

What she read made her grimace. “My dear, we must go at once to Damascus House,” Lina said, pulling the covers off Rhiannon’s face. “Lord Hartington has been murdered!”

Rhiannon groaned in protest, but allowed herself to be prodded out of bed, however reluctantly. After several cups of strong, hot tea, she declared herself ready to face a peer of the realm weltering in his gore. Lina, who had been dressed and champing at the bit for a full twenty minutes, wasted no time bundling her partner into the waiting carriage and ordering the horses to be whipped up to full speed.

Lord Hartington’s household was in an uproar. A steady stream of police constables flowed in and out, a blue serge and brass-button tide that seemed to revolve endlessly. Lina recognized Inspector Harold Valentine of Scotland Yard, who was conferring with several of his colleagues. The Police Commissioner himself, James Munro, his sidewhiskers fluffed out over his well-starched collar, stood aloof from the chaotic throng.

Lina bypassed Commissioner Munro and went straight to Valentine. “Well, Harry, here’s an odd coincidence,” she said. “It was only yesterday that Lord Hartington was consulting me on a matter of grave importance.”

The pun was not entirely intentional but Lina was not surprised when Rhiannon smacked her upper arm and whispered, “Behave!”

Valentine pulled a long face and said, “Glad to see you in such high spirits, milady.”

Rhiannon gave him a slit-eyed glare and raised her reticule threateningly. Valentine subsided, rocking back and forth on his toes. As usual, the police inspector was rolling an unlit cigar in the corner of his mouth.

“What happened?” Lina asked.

Valentine consulted a notebook which he took from the pocket of his jacket. “The youngest son, Gerald, was awakened at six a.m. by the sound of glass shattering. He roused the butler and Lord Hartington’s valet; all three chaps went downstairs and found Lord Harrington dead in the exhibit room. His head was stove in with a small marble bust. Milord’s coin collection is missing, presumed stolen.”

“The glass?”

“The window in the exhibit room was broken. I reckon that was the killer’s exit.”

“Do you?” Lina’s emerald eyes gleamed. “Might I examine the premises, Harry? I am an interested party, after all.”

“If he finds out that I’ve let you interfere in a murder investigation, Mr. Munro will give me the rough side of his tongue,” Valentine said. He slipped the notebook back into his jacket. “It ain’t worth my job, milady.”

“Harry, if Munro releases you from your obligations, I will pay you a generous pension out of my own pocket,” Lina said in her most wheedling tone. “Please, my dear fellow... do not make me beg. It is undignified.”

“What’s your interest, eh? Was the milord a particular friend?”

“No, not at all. My father was an acquaintance of Lord Hartington’s. My interest lies in the fact that it strains credulity to suppose that his murder – coming so shortly after conferring with me on an important matter - is a mere coincidence.”

“Don’t half fancy yourself, do you?” Valentine said, his storm-gray eyes narrowed in thought. “Very well, milady. Stick close to me and if anyone asks, you’re here to provide support of the female kind for Miss Victoria Hartington.”

“I shall endeavor to utilize my duplicitous nature to the utmost,” Lina said. She took Rhiannon’s gloved hand in her own. “Come along, my dear. Wickedness is abroad.”

Rhiannon smiled, then adopted a suitably serious mien as they walked the gauntlet of police constables, Valentine leading the way like a modern-day Moses parting the sea. They went unchallenged, and soon found themselves in the exhibit room.

The walls were clad in dark wood panels that bore the sort of gleam that could only be achieved by generations of beeswax and hard effort. Stuffed animal heads – from a twelve-point deer to more exotic zebras and water buffalo – were hung in profusion; dozens of glassy eyes stared down at the intruders. Antique weapons – a battle ax, a bastard sword, a pair of Manton’s best 18th century dueling pistols – were arranged above the fireplace. Heavy claret-colored curtains smothered the windows. There were a number of glass cases dotted around the room; they were empty now, but must have contained Lord Hartington’s coin collection. A Georgian walnut table had been overturned; it was the only real sign of a struggle.

The man himself lay dead upon the Aubusson carpet, his graying hair stained dark with blood. His skull was misshapen; flecks of bone and brain matter attested to the savagery of the attack which had claimed his life. The sole visible eye was wide open, pupil contracted to a pinpoint. Rhiannon suppressed a shudder, but she had seen more horribly violated corpses in her brief time with her lover, Lady St. Claire.

For her part, Lina leaned over until her nose was almost touching the wound. “The weapon was a bust, you said?” she asked Valentine.

“Julius Caesar,” Valentine answered, pointing to a small marble bust on the hearth. Rhiannon retrieved it but handled the item with care, as the solid stone base had a smear of blood and hair on it. Lina examined the bust; it was a reproduction of a more famous work owned by the Vatican, which showed the fabled general and dictator in his latter years. Not a very expensive copy; similar artifacts could be bought in Italy for next to nothing.

Lina put the bust down, rose to her full height and began prowling around the room. She seemed particularly interested in the broken window, as well as a few shattered bits of glass that littered the floor beneath the sill. The majority of the glass fragments were outside, scattered over the flowerbed. Suddenly looking intent as a hound that has caught wind of its prey, Lina went to the overturned table and picked it up. More glass splinters sparkled, caught in the Aubusson carpet.

“Harry,” she said, her keen glance sweeping over the inspector, “I must speak to William, Victoria and Gerald.”

“And why is that, milady?” Valentine asked, leaning a hip against the door frame.

“Because one of them murdered Lord Hartington,” Rhiannon piped up. She looked at Lina. “I know how it was done; I just don’t know why.”

“Excellent, my dear. Your deductive skills are progressing nicely. Well, Harry?”

Valentine’s countenance darkened, his boyish good looks turning sullen, almost dangerous. “Are you certain, milady?”

“As certain as I can be with the facts at hand.” Lina’s gesture encompassed the room. “Let us decently cover Lord Hartington and then summon his children to be questioned. If that meets with your approval, of course.”

Valentine hesitated a moment, then nodded. “All right, I’ll do it. Let’s just pray that James bloody Munro doesn’t find out that Scotland Yard is taking lessons in solving crime from a lady detective. He’d no doubt expire from apoplexy.”

In short order, Victoria Hartington and her two brothers came into the study. Valentine shut the door firmly behind them. Upon catching sight of the sheet-shrouded figure that was still sprawled on the floor, Victoria let out a little squeak of dismay. William’s saturnine face went hot and red, while Gerald turned as pale as milk.

“Let me state that Lord Hartington was murdered,” Lina said, confronting the surviving members of his lordship’s family. Her manner was brisk and allowed no outbursts. “However, he was not killed by some stranger or a random thief in the night. His murderer is here; a member of his own household who was driven by greed and fear to commit the terrible crime of patricide.”

William shouted, “You’re lying!”

Victoria wept. Gerald sank down slowly into a chair and hung his head, his mop of dark curls obscuring his face.

“No, I am not telling an untruth. The question remains – which of you wielded the instrument that deprived your father of his life?” Lina glanced at each of them in turn. “But let us put aside that question in favor of another – who needed cash so dreadfully that he began masquerading as a ghost in order to steal from his father’s coin collection?”

It was William’s turn to drop into a chair. “Oh, God,” he groaned.

Rhiannon said, “We knew it had to be someone in the house because of the table. There are glass fragments under the overturned table, which means the window was broken before the so-called struggle took place.”

“Furthermore, why would a thief break the window to escape when he could have easily exited the exhibit room and left via the front door? If he broke the window to enter the premises, the majority of the glass would have been on the inside, not the outside,” Lina explained. “No, the window was broken as an after-thought; that and the overturned table were intended to suggest a fatal struggle between a homeowner and a sneak thief.”

“Lord Hartington told us that he slept with a loaded pistol,” Rhiannon said, her turquoise blue gaze resting on Gerald, who trembled. “Where is it? If he had been disturbed in the night, he would have been armed.”

“Unless the disturbance was a familiar one, such as the appearance of a Romanesque spirit in a toga?” Lina’s lip curled. “I had thought that dressing oneself up as a ghost in order to frighten someone into fits was the stuff of penny dreadfuls.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Gerald whispered.

“Shut up,” William commanded. “Just shut up!”

Rhiannon knelt down next to Gerald’s chair. The young man looked miserable. “Tell us what happened,” she said, not unkindly.

“It was William,” Gerald whispered. “He came to my room. All he had on was a sheet. There was blood on it. He also had Father’s coins in a sack.”

“Go on, son,” Valentine urged. William swallowed whatever protest he was about to make when the inspector pointed a warning finger at him.

“William said that Father was dead. He told me to get the butler and Father’s valet and take them down to the exhibit room. I was to say nothing about him.”

“Why, William? Why now?” Lina asked the scowling man.

“Because you’d have found out that the ghost was a fake!” William spat. “Some of my friends’ parents have consulted the famous Lady St. Claire. You’ve a reputation that I didn’t want to challenge. You see, I’ve been taking a coin here and there on account of my debts – there are some bill collectors that one doesn’t want lurking near one’s doorstep.”

“Gambling? Women?” Valentine asked.

William nodded. “I had to do something. The old horror wouldn’t raise my allowance, so I decided to take the whole collection. He must have heard me, though, because he came into the room. I couldn’t get away. I broke the window but he grabbed me and…” he swallowed. “Father was so angry. I didn’t really mean to hurt him. I just wanted him to let me go.”

Victoria collapsed into a teary heap on the hearthrug.

Gerald trembled. “William needed time to change his clothes and hide the coins.” His voice dropped until it was the merest thread of sound. “In the bottom of my wardrobe.”

Rhiannon put an arm around him, while Lina wielded smelling salts under Victoria’s nose in an attempt to revive the swooning girl. Valentine sent a constable to Mr. Munro, who was needed to pass judgment since the Hartington family was politically well-connected.

Lina left the problem of justice to the minions of the law. Lord Hartington’s murderer was exposed, the puzzle was solved – exeunt omnes, as far as she was concerned. The rest could take care of itself or, at least, the Police Commissioner would do as he felt best. She bade Valentine good-day and left Damascus House, bumping into Munro on her way to her carriage. Thankfully, he did not recognize her and she was able to make good her escape with Rhiannon. Let Valentine take both praise and blame; she cared nothing for either.

It was still early in the morning. Back in their home in Grosvenor Street, Lina and Rhiannon marched upstairs arm-in-arm. When the two women entered their bedchamber, they left a trail of clothing to the opium bed and tumbled together on the mattress, Rhiannon yawning hugely but also chuckling at something Lina said. The laughter turned to moans and the sound of bare flesh slithering against satin sheets.

Solange discreetly closed the door and went down to tell Cook to put breakfast back by half an hour.

The Ides of October had claimed a victim, but life and love went undaunted on.

THE END

<~~~~Return to the Library

THE EYES OF THE IDOL
by Nene Adams©2004 – all rights reserved

'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green,
An' 'er name was Supi-Yaw-Lat jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen,
An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot,
An' wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol foot:
Bloomin' idol made o' mud--
Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd--
Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud!
On the road to Mandalay.
---Rudyard Kipling, Mandalay

London, England 1892

The woman's gloved hands were clenched into fists. Her shoulders were stiff. Her entire posture was rigid, yet beneath the controlled surface, a current of strong emotion seemed to threaten to spill over at any moment. "My name is Miss Constance Lytton," she said, blinking. Her lips trembled as she spoke. "I am a nurse, currently engaged by Lord and Lady Drummond for their daughter, Madeline."

"I have heard of the case," said Lady Evangeline St. Claire. She turned to her partner, Rhiannon Moore, who was perched next to her on the arm of the green velvet settee. "We have read about the matter in The Times, although I do not trust journalists to present the unvarnished facts. Do you remember, my dear? The jewelry theft at Mayweather Park in Kensington."

A look of despair crossed over Constance's plain features, then vanished as she reasserted control and presented her formerly bland countenance. A tinge of pink in her sallow cheeks was the only evidence of the struggle that waged within. "Yes, the stolen necklace. What the newspapers do not report is that I am the chief suspect. It is only a matter of time before the accusation becomes public."

Rhiannon got up in a rustle of indigo skirts. Like Lina, she was dressed in the corset-less aesthetic style, clad in a loosely flowing Liberty's silk gown whose color enhanced her turquoise eyes and was the perfect backdrop for her red-gold hair. "Would you care for some tea, or perhaps something stronger? Brandy? Whiskey-and-soda?" she suggested to Constance, crossing to the tray of tea things that stood upon a table.

The nurse nodded. "Tea would suit me very well, thank you." After the little ritual was complete – a single lump of sugar and a translucent slice of lemon in the cup - she turned to Lina once more. "I have heard that you might be able to help me."

Lina accepted the bone china cup that Rhiannon offered her. "That will depend upon you, Miss Lytton." Her emerald gaze narrowed as she studied the nurse's face. "Did you take Lord Hillmont's necklace?"

Constance's cup rattled in its saucer. She closed her eyes; a muscle moved in her jaw, and the tremors ceased. When she opened her eyes again, she had regained her calm. "No, milady, I did not." She returned Lina's stare coolly, as though the lapse had never occurred.

Lina continued her examination of the nurse and finally sat back, satisfied that the woman was not about to burst into a storm of weeping. Such self-control pleased her and made her task of uncovering the truth that much easier. "Please begin at the beginning. Be as thorough as possible. Omit nothing. The smallest detail may prove crucial."

Rhiannon took a little notebook and mechanical pencil from the pocket of her gown, and prepared to take notes.

Constance sighed. "Very well, milady. As I have already stated, I am a nurse, engaged by Lord and Lady Drummond to care for their daughter, Madeline, who is eighteen years of age. Miss Madeline is a sickly girl, much given to headaches and melancholia and the occasional bout of hysteria. She suffers from a general malaise – the result, in my opinion, of overindulgence," she said delicately.

"In other words, Miss Madeline has been dreadfully spoiled, and makes herself ill if she doesn't get her way," Rhiannon said.

Constance was surprised. "I am astounded by your acuity," she said, putting her cup down. Below the frizzled curls of her blonde bangs, her hazel eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Were you once a governess, perhaps?"

"I'm a private tutor's daughter," Rhiannon replied. The two women shared a glance of mingled commiseration and a kind of grim amusement.

Lina did not understand the exchange but decided it was better not to interrupt.

Constance relaxed a trifle, since she had found a sympathetic ear. "At any rate," she continued, "Miss Madeline is an engaging child in her own way, once one has learned to handle her properly. Indeed, she is quite affectionate and I do not find my duties too odious to bear. Her behavior seemed to be improving. However, one week ago we learned that Lord Percival Hillmont would be coming to Mayweather Park to pay a visit to Miss Madeline. The two are engaged to be married and he wished to present her bridal gift himself."

"And how does the girl feel about the matter?" Lina asked.

"The understanding between them is of a peculiar kind, arranged by their parents almost ten years ago. Lord Hillmont is eager as a potential bridegroom should be; Miss Madeline is a very pretty child though, as I’ve stated, much spoiled. For her part, Miss Madeline appears indifferent sometimes; at other times, her feelings range from despair to feverish excitement. She has a broad romantic streak, which I regret to say has been nurtured by an addiction to romantic novels of the most violent sort.”

Lina smiled and raised her brows at Rhiannon; the other woman bared her teeth and settled primly on an hassock, nose in the air. Rhiannon, too, was much addicted to penny dreadfuls and shilling shockers – the more fantastical and gore-splattered, the better. It was a source of constant amusement for Lina, who enjoyed teasing her partner about this less-than-becoming habit of reading what she considered trash.

“At any rate,” Constance said, ignoring the by-play, “Lord Hillmont arrived at Mayweather Park on Saturday last, bearing with him the famous Hillmont opals - his family's traditional gift to the brides of their eldest sons."

"Ah, the Hillmont opals. Are you familiar with them, my dear?" Lina asked. At Rhiannon's head shake, she continued, "Twin milky opals, about the size of baby's fists, set as pendants in a triple strand of matched pearls and blue opal beads. I have heard that the large gemstones were looted from a heathen temple by the Spanish, hence the nickname, 'Eyes of the Idol.' The necklace was first made for Good Queen Bess."

"Queen Elizabeth gave it as a wedding present to a lady-in-waiting, Lettice Everard, who married Lord James Hillmont." Constance smoothed the bodice of her serviceable black bombazine gown. There was a yellow flower pinned near her collar; other than a jet brooch, it was her only ornament. "Ever since, brides marrying into the Hillmont family are expected to wear the opals at their weddings."

"And now the necklace is missing, presumably stolen."

"Precisely. The wedding cannot take place unless Miss Madeline wears the opals. It is a condition of her marriage contract. The whole household is in an uproar." Constance went rigid again, her spine stiffening to ruler straightness. "I fear that the police will soon arrest me. I am an innocent woman, milady. I beg you to help me."

Lina gave the nurse her most reassuring smile. "I will provide every assistance at my command, Miss Lytton. Kindly inform me of the circumstances surrounding the necklace's disappearance, if you please.”

Constance took a deep breath. "Lord Hillmont arrived at eight o'clock on the night of Saturday last, bringing with him a valet named Kennicot. The box containing the opal necklace was placed in the vault in Lord Drummond's library. This vault also contains Lady Drummond's jewels. Only milord and milady have the keys."

Rhiannon scribbled in her little notebook, taking down the pertinent facts.

"After dinner,” Constance continued, tucking a stray blonde curl back into the heavy chignon at the base of her neck, “the necklace was fetched and presented to Miss Madeline in the privacy of her boudoir. She had taken a tray in her room, having begged off joining the rest of the party for dinner because of a headache."

"What was her reaction upon seeing the necklace?"

"She wept. Miss Madeline told me that the necklace was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She expressed a regret that she could not have the opals without also having Lord Hillmont. The thought of marriage seemed to drive her further and further into an hysterical state." The faint lines visible on Constance’s face from nose to mouth deepened when she frowned. "Miss Madeline often behaves in a fanciful way. Her future husband is personable and amiable, not at all an ogre, and she has known him since childhood. I had thought her fond of him.

“Lady Drummond, who was present, grew greatly worried at the extent of Miss Madeline's furor. She asked me to return the necklace to the vault and gave me her own key to do so. I believe that she wished to confer with Miss Madeline without witnesses, in order to discover her daughter's objections to the match. I later learned that she was unable to wring any confidences from Miss Madeline; I believe the girl likes Lord Hillmont well enough and was only causing difficulty for its own sake.

"I did as I was ordered. The library was empty. I went straight to the vault, opened it, and placed the box containing the necklace inside. At no time was the necklace out of my sight or out of my hands. I returned to Miss Madeline's room and gave the key back to Lady Drummond. Miss Madeline had fallen into an exhausted sleep and I did not think it prudent to rouse her. Lady Drummond remained with the girl for a while, and I retired to my own bed.

"The next morning, the box was missing and the necklace was gone. At first, milord and milady refused to believe that I had anything to do with it, but as the police enquiry continued, their suspicions increasingly focused upon me. After all, I was the last person to see the Hillmont opals. I had had possession of the key. They have only my word - the word of an employee, no matter how trusted - that the vault door was locked and the necklace within. The police inspector believes that, if I did not steal the necklace myself, then I must have been an accomplice to the theft. The vault was not forced. The doors and windows were locked. Whoever took the opals must have had the vault key and been let in by someone. Do you see how it is?" Constance spread her gloved hands apart. "Even I am having difficulty believing in my own innocence."

"It does, indeed, look black for you. Are any of the other servants suspected?" Lina asked.

"Everyone was suspected at first. Now it appears that I am the only logical choice."

Lina steepled her fingers together and looked grave. "What is the name of the police inspector who has charge of the case?"

"Inspector Harold Valentine of Scotland Yard." Constance's façade began to crack. Her mouth trembled. "He would have arrested me already, save that Lady Drummond intervened on my behalf. Miss Madeline's condition has declined since the disappearance. She is bedridden, listless, yet sometimes possessed of a queer kind of maniacal energy. She laughs and sobs at the slightest provocation. Only my presence calms her. I believe, if it were not for Lady Drummond's concern about her daughter's health, I would now be in Holloway Gaol. Milady’s protection will not last much longer, I fear."

"Has Madeline said anything to you regarding the theft of the necklace?" Lina got up and went to the window, pulling aside the heavy velvet curtains in order to peer outside.

Constance considered the question. "The morning we learned the news from Lady Drummond, Miss Madeline told me that she was glad it was gone. 'Now I won't have to marry him,' she told me, and seemed in good spirits at the prospect. Needless to say, I was very alarmed by her attitude and explained to her that such overt happiness might be construed as an insult to Lord Hillmont. She did not seem to care. Indeed, she fairly glowed. She told me that, since she could not marry, I would have to stay on as her nurse. My plans, I said to her, had not changed. You must understand - I believed the whole thing was a mistake of some kind, and the necklace would soon be found. I did not anticipate becoming a suspect."

"No one does," Rhiannon murmured. "Tell me, Miss Lytton... if the Eyes of the Idol are discovered, will you leave your place of employment?"

"I do not care if the wretched thing is found or not, so long as I am cleared of suspicion," Constance replied. "I will tell you the same thing I told Miss Madeline: I will be leaving the Drummond household as soon as practical. After the demonstration of milord and milady's distrust, it will be impossible for me to remain. Besides, Lord Hillmont is eager to wed Miss Madeline, and I think he will do so irregardless of his family's tradition. Miss Madeline is, despite immaturity, an adult woman of sound mind. There is nothing wrong with her that a firm but kind hand will not solve."

"So you feel no further responsibility for the girl?" Rhiannon pressed. "None at all?"

"Miss Madeline regards me as a friend and confidante, a mother figure if you will," Constance said, her voice trailing off. She cleared her throat and added, "Again, I point out to you that I am a paid companion. My feelings do not enter into the matter. I have done my best to care for Miss Madeline during the time that I have been engaged. Frankly, a clean break may do her good. She has become far too dependent on me - excessively so, in my opinion."

"Excessively dependent?" Rhiannon asked with a knowing gleam in her eyes.

Constance shifted in her seat. "Yes," was all she replied. Her hand strayed to the flower pinned near her collar. It was a yellow blossom, a round golden puffball that glowed like a little sun against the black of her dress.

Rhiannon followed the movement of the nurse's hand. "Acacia smallii. Does she give you one every day?"

Constance nodded. Rhiannon continued, “I understand.” The look she gave the nurse was one of pity and a sad knowledge that Lina did not share.

Lina shook her head. "I do not," she said, letting the curtains fall back. "This boots nothing. Miss Lytton is being followed by the police. There is a pair of constables watching the house from across the street. There may be more nearby."

Rhiannon snapped her notebook closed. "Do you know the language of flowers, Lina?"

"Absolutely not. I pride myself on a distinct lack of feminine accomplishments." Lina returned to the sofa. "Why do you ask, my dear?"

"I'll explain at Mayweather Park." Rhiannon stood up. "I know who took the necklace, and I believe I know why."

Lina's dark brows shot towards her hairline. "Do you?"

"Oh, yes. For once, the tables have turned. If you want the solution, you'll just have to wait until I’m ready to reveal it." Rhiannon folded her arms across her chest and grinned at Lina's discomfiture. "Will you order a cab? That will be quicker than waiting for Henry to fetch the carriage and horses from Smythe’s Stables. I think we ought to conclude our investigation as soon as possible."

Constance looked stricken. She pressed a hand against her bosom and said, "Will you... will you be discreet, Miss Moore?" Unshed tears trembled on her lashes.

“Don’t worry, Miss Lytton. Lord and Lady Drummond need never know.”

Lina was not exactly irked that Rhiannon had solved the case, but... the shoe definitely pinches when it is on the other foot, she thought. If this is how my dear feels when I indulge in the theatrical, I have a new appreciation for her occasional pique.

"Miss Moore is the soul of discretion," she said aloud.

Rhiannon twinkled at her. "Thank you, love."

"This cannot be done any other way?" Constance asked, taking a clean handkerchief out of her sleeve and dabbing her wet eyes with it. "I did not want.. at least, my suspicions were at first… but I did not…" she babbled incoherently.

"The truth will set you free," Rhiannon said kindly. “You were put into a terrible position and did the best you could. No one will blame you.”

Constance slumped in relief and blew her nose. "Thank you."

When Lina went outside in search of a cab – both of the footmen having taken a well-deserved half-day off - she went over the facts that had surfaced during the nurse's interview. Rhiannon's cryptic remark regarding the language of flowers was especially intriguing. Lina had an inkling as to the true culprit's identity but she would have waited for evidence to prove her conclusion. Rhiannon wanted to do things differently; that was her prerogative. It was also clear to her that Constance Lytton's focus had shifted from Lina to Rhiannon as her savior.

I do not begrudge my dear her moment in the sun. Lord knows I have confounded her often enough. Lina smiled to herself and, spotting a hansom cab, signaled for the driver to stop. A moment’s search of the street turned up two urchins who, for a few pennies, undertook to distract the watching constables with a noisy squabble and a fight in a nearby mud puddle. While the officers cursed and tried to brush the filth from their uniforms, Lina hastily got Rhiannon and Constance into the cab and directed the driver to Kensington.

At Mayweather Park – a magnificent Georgian mansion built of red brick on Campden Hill, near the famous Holland House – Lina presented her calling card to the butler. Constance Lytton remained in the cab, swaddled in a shawl and out of sight of the constables who guarded the premises. Inspector Valentine must have been with Lord and Lady Drummond; shortly after the butler disappeared with her card on a silver tray, Valentine came bounding down the oak staircase, his shock of blonde hair standing on end.

“What might your business be, milady?” he asked Lina without preamble.

“Good day to you, too, Harry,” Lina said, not at all disturbed by his scowl. “I understand a valuable necklace has gone missing.”

Valentine’s scowl grew more pronounced, until the man looked as though he had bitten into a lemon. “What ‘ave you to do with it?” he growled.

“Not a thing,” Lina replied. She reached behind her and pulled Rhiannon forward in a flurry of indigo silk and a woven oat straw hat that had entirely too many feathers on it. “If you desire answers, Harry, you must apply to Miss Moore.” It was the first time she had ever seen Valentine so completely flummoxed. Lina had to quell the urge to guffaw.

“What’s the trouble, luv?” Valentine asked Rhiannon when he had recovered sufficiently for speech. His manner with her was gentle, almost gentlemanly for such a rough-hewn individual. “Has milady been bitten by the lunatic bug? I knew it was only a matter of time before she became a bedlamite.”

Lina bit her lip very hard to keep from retorting sharply. She reminded herself that Rhiannon was in charge. This was her partner’s case and she would do nothing to detract from the woman’s moment of glory. Not one thing.

Not one.

Rhiannon smiled at Valentine and laid a hand on his arm. “Inspector…”

“Do call me Harry, luv.”

“Very well, Harry.” Rhiannon sidled closer to the man. “You see, I’ve been talking to Miss Constance Lytton.”

“You have, eh?” Valentine gave Lina a filthy look that ought to have curled her toes. “So, milady, now you’ve got the missus doing your dirty work.”

“Not at all,” Lina drawled. “I am merely an onlooker. Proceed, my dear,” she said to Rhiannon. Patting her lover’s indigo-clad behind would, she thought, be entirely too patronizing, no matter how tempting the rounded swell of the buttocks in question.

“Harry, I do not believe that Miss Lytton is responsible for the theft,” Rhiannon said firmly, slanting her turquoise eyes up at Valentine in a manner calculated to distract his attention away from Lina and her supposed duplicity. “In fact, I’m sure of it.”

“How’s that, then?” Valentine asked, his mouth quirking in amusement. It was clear that he was indulging Rhiannon’s little whim. The man deserved a comeuppance and Lina hoped that her partner would take him down a peg or two.

“The answer is in the flower that Miss Lytton is wearing,” Rhiannon replied. “It’s a yellow acacia.”

Valentine seemed bemused rather than offended. Lina wondered why Rhiannon’s relationship with the Scotland Yard inspector was less adversarial than her own. Valentine was never abrasive with the woman, not even when he had first met Rhiannon and recognized her as a prostitute. Valentine and Lina had fizzed at one another like two cats on a fence from the very beginning of their acquaintanceship, although these days they were somewhat friendlier and less likely to shout.

“I need to see Madeline Drummond alone in her bedchamber, except for Lina,” Rhiannon said, looking so very earnest, Lina had a difficult time controlling the impulse to kiss her until both their mouths were bruised. “When I’m finished, I should have some important information for you,” Rhiannon concluded.

“Is that so?” Valentine stuck out his lower lip, glanced at Lina, and scratched his head. “And you’ve naught to do with this?” he asked Lina.

“Rhiannon is in charge of the proceedings; I am merely her faithful factotum,” Lina replied, beaming. It gave her a thrill to be able to say that.

“The evidence says that Miss Lytton done it,” Valentine said.

Rhiannon replied, “The evidence is incomplete.”

Valentine sighed. “I suppose if I don’t do as you ask, you’ll go all a-flutter and burst into tears.”

“Anything’s possible,” Rhiannon said gravely, although her eyes glittered with good-humored mischief.

“I can’t stand a crying woman.” Valentine stood aside and motioned for the ladies to pass within. “If anyone asks, luv, you beat me down good n’ proper.”

Rhiannon nodded and followed the inspector upstairs, where Madeline Drummond lay on a chaise longue, a cloth on her forehead. Her mother was, thankfully, absent from the room. Madeline was a tragic figure in her dressing gown – willowy and wan and very Ophelia-like, if that unhappy damsel had drowned in a sea of Brussels lace and pink satin instead of a weed-choked river. Her auburn hair was unbound and hung straight as a bone over the arm of the chaise. A table filled with patent medicine bottles was at her elbow, and the air was redolent with lavender and acrid laudanum.

“Miss Madeline, here’s a pair of ladies what wishes to see you,” Valentine said.

Madeline removed the folded cloth from her brow and opened her eyes, which were an unusual shade of sherry-brown. Her features were delicate and elfin, almost pointed at chin and nose. “What do you want?” she asked impolitely, eyeing Lina and Rhiannon the way a housewife might gaze upon a less-than-fresh piece of cod.

Lina bristled, but before she could respond, Rhiannon replied in a brisk, no-nonsense manner, “I want the opal necklace you stole from the vault.”

Madeline gaped at her. Unconsciously, a hand stole beneath the heap of lace-trimmed cushions that was propping her up. Rhiannon reacted without hesitation. She thrust her hand under the cushions and emerged holding the missing Hillmont necklace.

She handed the glittering string of opals and pearls to Valentine. “This can be handled discreetly,” Rhiannon told him. “Miss Drummond has a highly sensitive nature. I’m certain she didn’t mean to cause trouble. Did you, miss?”

Her voice rose to a pitch and volume that Lina had never heard before. Rhiannon reminded her of a rather strict governess she had known in her youth, except her lover was much younger and a hundred times prettier. She could not help imagining, briefly, what might happen if Rhiannon took a disciplinarian tone in the bedchamber. Lina stifled a gasp as a bolt of desire lanced through her body and settled to moist heat between her thighs. Yes, she would have to see what could be contrived for Rhiannon in the way of black sateen, stiff celluloid collar and cuffs, and perhaps a pince-nez…

Lina tore her mind away from fantasy and back to the matter at hand.

Madeline replied sullenly, “I didn’t mean to get anyone in trouble.”

Valentine made as if to say something and Rhiannon stopped him with a gesture. “Let me talk to the girl while you return the necklace to Lady Drummond,” she said. “I’ll explain everything to her ladyship when I’m done here. You’ll also find Miss Lytton in the hansom cab outside; kindly ask her to come in. I’m sure Lady Drummond will be glad to see her.”

“You!” Valentine whirled around and pointed an accusatory finger at Lina. “You’ve corrupted her, you have!”

“Harry!” Rhiannon spoke the inspector’s name in that special tone which nannies and public school teachers reserved for naughty boys.

Lina felt as if her bodice was far too tight.

Valentine cast a final glare at Lina and slunk out of the room, his hand full of milky fire-laced opals and pearls.

Rhiannon turned back to Madeline and stood, arms akimbo, gazing down at the wan young lady, who did not meet her eyes. “Well?” Rhiannon asked, arching her coppery brows.

“You don’t understand,” Madeline murmured.

“Oh, I understand perfectly. Every day, a yellow acacia. How you must have longed for that golden flower to be exchanged for a scarlet rose.”

Lina was aware that red roses were a token of passionate love in the so-called ‘language of perfumed words;’ she remained ignorant of the meaning of yellow acacias. For the first time in her life, she wished that she had paid closer attention to her own governess, who had done her best to civilize the Duchess’ wayward daughter and make a lady of her.

Rhiannon explained, “An acaia blossom symbolizes concealed or secret love.”

Oh?

Oh!

Lina glanced at Madeline, who had colored quite alarmingly. She recalled Constance Lytton’s plain face and frizzled blonde bangs, the way the woman had kept herself rigid, as if her skeleton was composed of steel rather than bone. What an awkward situation! Constance had known about Madeline’s schoolgirl crush, of course, and it had left the poor nurse in a dilemma, caught between Scylla and Charibdis. On the one hand, it would not be proper to encourage such an inappropriate attachment; on the other hand, rejecting Madeline too harshly might result in the girl turning against her, leading to swift unemployment.

Rhiannon had settled on the edge of the chaise longue. “Madeline,” she said, “you know that Miss Lytton is your friend. She’s taken care of you when you were ill, seen to your needs, wiped your tears… but now she has to go. Don’t you think she’s earned the right to live her own life? Don’t you want what’s best for her?”

“Yes,” Madeline said. She glanced at Rhiannon sidelong, showing the whites of her eyes. “I like her so very much, you know. She’s not very pretty but she has cool, dry hands. I hate sweaty hands.”

“Does Lord Hillmont have sweaty hands?”

“No,” Madeline replied, biting her bottom lip. “He has dry nice hands, too. And he’s handsome, and he brings me nice things like flowers and chocolates and gloves.”

“Do you mind marrying Lord Hillmont very much?” Lina asked. No matter if the child had been petted and spoiled all her life, to such an extent that she had stolen a valuable necklace and nearly gotten the object of her misplaced affections arrested in the process - if Madeline truly objected to the arranged match, she would do everything in her power to persuade Lord and Lady Drummond to reconsider.

Madeline looked thoughtful. “No, I don’t mind. He’s rather jolly and he’s got an awful lot of money. I took Hilly’s horrid old necklace because we can’t get married without it, and I didn’t want Constance to leave me, and she said she’d be leaving after the wedding.”

“My dear girl!” cried Lady Drummond, who had entered the boudoir unnoticed. She was plump as a pouter pigeon, and dressed in so many ruffles, swags and furbelows that she resembled an animated wedding cake. “What a to-do you’ve caused!”

“I’m sorry, mummy,” but Madeline did not seem at all contrite. “Will you tell Hilly that I want Constance to stay with me? I’m sure he’d understand.”

“Miss Lytton has already accepted an offer of employment from Colonel Atherton – you remember his daughter, Lydia? – and will be joining the family at his posting in India.” Lady Drummond’s glance made Rhiannon abandon her position on the chaise longue. The lady sat down beside her daughter; Madeline immediately put her head in her mother’s lap and snaked an arm around the woman’s tightly corseted waist.

Lina observed that the girl’s hand was ideally placed to dip into the large side-pocket in Lady Drummond’s skirt. She supposed that was where the woman kept her household keys. The scenario was now complete in her mind. After Constance had returned the necklace to the vault, Lady Drummond slipped the key back into her pocket. Madeline, the sly baggage, had taken the key and later that evening, opened the vault and took the necklace, hiding it in a place where no one would think to search.

Madeline and Lady Drummond were speaking softly together, the girl’s voice alternating between a thin whine and an aggrieved soprano, while her mother remained steadfast and calm. Lina reached out and squeezed Rhiannon’s shoulder. She leaned down and whispered, “Let us give them some privacy.”

Rhiannon nodded and followed her out of Madeline’s blowzy, lace-bedecked bedchamber. Valentine was waiting for them downstairs; with him was Constance Lytton, sallow and frizzled and ever-so-slightly frazzled by the inspector’s gruff courtesies.

“Miss Lytton, you’re free to join Colonel Atherton,” Rhiannon said. “Miss Madeline has no real objection to wedding Lord Hillmont, nor did she wish to cause you harm. The incident was more an exercise in willfulness and an appalling carelessness. She did not understand the possible consequences of her actions, although I believe Miss Madeline would not have remained silent if you had been arrested.”

“I am not so sure, but I thank you for the reassurance,” Constance said. Lina noticed that the yellow acacia blossom was gone. “Did I… do you believe that I encouraged her?”

“I shouldn’t worry,” Rhiannon said. “Girls that age… their passions come and go. One day, they’re positively in love with a stage actor like Henry Irving; the next, they’ve thrown Mr. Irving over for an unsuitable boy they met on a romp in Kensington Gardens. Miss Madeline seems to genuinely like Lord Hillmont; without having met the man myself, if he is all you say, then it will be a good match for her.”

Constance let out a sigh of relief. “Thank God.”

Lina poked Valentine impolitely with her elbow. “Did I not tell you that Rhiannon was in charge of the investigation? She has done marvelously!”

Valentine shrugged, took a cigar out of his jacket pocket, and thrust it into the corner of his mouth. He did contrive to give Rhiannon a smile of congratulations, which she acknowledged with a graceful curtsey.

Lina gallantly offered their hansom cab to Miss Lytton, but she claimed that Valentine had already volunteered to escort her to her new lodgings in the respectable Miss Marks’ boarding house near Piccadilly. Constance feared that remaining at Mayweather Park would cause difficulty to all parties.

“Awkwardness aside, Lady Drummond’s remuneration has been most generous. I should like to see something of London before I travel to India,” she said, and clasped Rhiannon’s hand, her hazel eyes aglow with gratitude. “Thank you so very much, Miss Moore. I don’t know what I should have done without your kind assistance.”

“You’re quite welcome, Miss Lytton.” Rhiannon was flushed with pleasure.

Her partner looked so sweet, so delectable, so positively edible, that Lina made her farewells with almost improper haste and propelled Rhiannon towards the waiting cab.

“Do you think,” Lina asked once they were safely within, though not entirely out of sight of prying eyes due to the open front of the cab, “that we can obtain a pince-nez at short notice?” She was murmuring against Rhiannon’s ear, making the other woman squirm deliciously. “Possibly a slate and some chalk? A Latin primer?”

Rhiannon shifted so that she could examine Lina’s face. What she saw reflected there made her gasp. A devilish light gleamed in her turquoise eyes. “Feeling a bit of nostalgia for the schoolroom, love?”

“Yes, miss,” Lina said in her best ‘young lady’ tone.

“If you’ve been a naughty girl, we’ll need a birch as well,” Rhiannon said, eyeing her speculatively.

Lina shivered… but in anticipation rather than genuine fear.

THE END

<~~~Return to the Library

The Body on the Serpentine by Nene Adams ©2004 - All rights reserved
A Gaslight Series Short Story (formerly available to Supporters of the Library)

I was angry with my friend;
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears:
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine.

And into my garden stole.
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning glad I see,
My foe outstretchd beneath the tree.
---William Blake, A Poison Tree

~~~ooo0ooo~~~~

London, England 1890

t was, Lady Evangeline St. Claire reflected, a perfect day for a picnic.

Having some time to themselves with no criminal cases in sight, she and Rhiannon Moore - her lover, partner and other half of her soul - had purchased a large hamper of delectables from Fortnum and Mason, that purveyor of ready-made luxuries, and hied off to fashionable Hyde Park to bask in the late summer sunshine.

The two women had found a lovely spot near the Serpentine, the artificial lake that separated Hyde Park from its neighbor, Kensington Gardens, and settled beneath a shady tree to indulge in the time-honored occupation of watching passers-by. From shopgirls in bombazine and nannies with their charges, to gaily dressed ladies of leisure and the gentlemen who escorted them, the park was a popular place to be seen en promenade.

"Isn't that Baroness de Witt?" Rhiannon asked. She was seated on the picnic blanket, leaning on one hip with her legs folded together on the other side – a sidesaddle posture that seemed more uncomfortable than it truly was. Lina thought the other woman looked rather fetching in a lace-trimmed cherry-amber silk gown whose color set her strawberry-blonde hair ablaze.

Lina reluctantly tore her gaze away from a perusal of Rhiannon's generous décolletage. “Yes, I believe that is Cordelia de Witt, but the gentleman is not her husband. I had thought her to have a tad more discretion than parading a lover in public.”

“He might be a cousin or a some other relation,” Rhiannon said, biting into a plump scarlet strawberry. “You needn’t assume the worst.” A bit of juice collected at the corner of her mouth; Lina wrestled the urge to lean over and lick it away. The sweetness of the berry juice would not, she knew, equal the sweetness of Rhiannon’s lips.

To quell the sudden and insistent thud-thud-thud of her heart, Lina investigated the contents of the picnic hamper. If one appetite could not be satisfied, perhaps another could. The uniform-clad, white-gloved assistant at Fortnum and Mason had outfitted them with cutlery, crystal glasses and delicate china tableware; the hamper also contained an outstanding selection of foodstuffs including a crock of goose liver paté, lobster, ham, boned quails in aspic with prawns, strawberries and a bottle of champagne.

She expertly eased the cork from the champagne bottle with her thumbs; not for her the showy explosion that resulted in the loss of half the contents and left the remainder unpleasantly flat. After serving herself and Rhiannon with bubbly champagne, Lina took some ham and a bit of quail aspic, happy and content and full of joi de vivre.

This state of affairs lasted until a wail from nearby startled her into dropping her glass of champagne, wetting her skirts and staining the cream-and-ivory moiré and satin stripes of her dress. Lina looked around to locate the source of the contretemps and saw a woman struggling to rise from the grass, her motion hampered by her bustle; the tight sleeves of her dress were threatening to split at the seams under her agitated movements. On the opposite side of the blanket, a fat and florid man was choking, both beefy hands clutching his neck, his eyes fairly bulging from their sockets.

“My husband! Someone help my husband!” the woman screamed, wringing her hands in the depths of her distress.

A bewhiskered gentleman with their party was slapping the victim on the back with no discernible result. A second female – much younger than the first, possibly a daughter – had swooned. Lina leaped to her feet, knocking over the champagne bottle, and hastened to help. A fellow in brown tweed, accompanied by a curly-haired spaniel, declared himself a doctor and began to tend to the choking man, who had already collapsed, spasming in every limb. After a few moments, the doctor declared the man dead.

The older woman, whom Lina deduced was the dead man’s wife, let out a blood-curdling scream of grief that sent the doctor’s spaniel into hysterics. The dog raced around in a circle, scattering the picnic things and making an unholy mess in the process. The daughter recovered from her faint, only to lose consciousness again when she learned of her father’s demise. Her mother clung to the fourth member of their party, the gentleman who had been smacking her husband’s back, and emitted loud sobs and moans.

Lina took hold of the doctor’s arm and drew him aside. In the confusion, she had taken the opportunity to perform a cursory examination of the body. What she found was troubling. “We must notify Scotland Yard,” she told him.

The doctor curled his lip. It was clear that he disapproved of meddling females. “Madam, there is no reason to summon the Yard for what is a clear case of accidental death.”

Lina shook her head. “Did you fail to notice the foam on the man’s lips? The extraordinary floridness of his complexion? The smell of almonds? My dear sir, this gentleman has been poisoned. Considering the symptoms, I suspect prussic acid.”

“Who are you?” the doctor asked, his mustache bristling fiercely.

“Lady Evangeline St. Claire,” Lina answered, knowing from his blank expression that the doctor was not familiar with her reputation as a consulting detective. “If you will not send for Scotland Yard, I will do it myself.”

“Very well, milady, although I think it a fool’s errand.” He bared his teeth in a not-smile.

A considerable crowd had gathered to observe the proceedings; it was not every day that a man died in Hyde Park, and that generated no little excitement among the hoi polloi and the beaumonde alike. A police constable’s appearance made the throng sigh with anticipation. The doctor spoke to him at length, both men shooting her glances, but Lina remained unperturbed. She knew she was right and, she believed, the doctor knew it, too. Like most men, he had to show the appearance of reluctance in order to preserve the façade that he was merely indulging a lady, not taking orders from her.

And this is the master of all he surveys, she thought, snorting in amusement.

“May I know your name, sir?” Lina asked the doctor when the constable had gone off to fetch his superiors.

“Dr. Julian Idlewyld,” he replied, cutting his glance towards the victim. Idlewyld had had the decency to cover the man’s engorged features with a clean handkerchief.

Rhiannon joined them, having had the presence of mind to lure the spaniel with a slice of ham and secure the dog before it could continue running amok. “He’s a sweet creature,” she said to Idlewyld, “but perhaps a trifle excitable.”

The doctor snapped the leather lead on the panting spaniel’s collar. The smile he directed towards Rhiannon was distinctly friendlier than the one he had given Lina. “Thank you, miss…?”

“Miss Moore,” Lina said firmly, “is my companion. Thank you, my dear. There has been enough destruction for one day, I think.”

Idlewyld tipped his hat at Rhiannon. “A pleasure, Miss Moore.”

“Likewise, Dr. Idlewyld,” Rhiannon replied.

The constable returned with more Myrmidons of the law, including a figure well-known to both Lina and Rhiannon – Inspector Harold Valentine of Scotland Yard. He drummed his fingers on the round, hard paunch of his belly and squinted at the women in a relatively friendly fashion.

“If it ain’t Lady St. Claire and Miss Moore,” Valentine said, chewing an unlit cigar with his usual ferocity. “Fancy meeting you two at the scene of a murder. Hah!”

“I assure you, Harry, our presence at the unfortunate affair is pure coincidental. We were having a picnic,” Lina said, lacing her arm through Rhiannon’s, “when our idyll was interrupted by this most unfortunate happenstance.”

The bewhiskered fellow comforting the new widow spoke up. “What’s all this hullabaloo? Have some common decency - the lady has just lost her husband, damn your eyes!”

“And who might you be?” Valentine asked, rocking back and forth on his toes.

“Frederick Gideon Mordecai Butterfield III,” he answered, his hostility clearly written in the sneer and the gimlet glare he directed towards the police inspector.

That Butterfield was American was evident by the man’s accent; his occupation as a photographer could be deduced by the chemical stains on his hands and sleeve cuffs. In fact, the right jacket sleeve was positively peppered with tiny burn scars from the explosive magnesium and potassium chlorate combination known as flashpowder, which enabled him to take photographs in low light. Lina further concluded that Butterfield was an habitual pipe smoker, as evident by the matted and nicotine-stained section of beard near the corner of his mouth. Thick calluses on his hands indicated that Butterfield had done heavy labor at some time in the not-too-distant past.

Inspector Valentine questioned the sobbing widow gently and patiently. He learned that the dead man was a wealthy dilettante named Simon Barnabas. He left behind a widow – Henrietta – and a daughter, Louisa; no other relatives remained to carry on the family name. Mr. Butterfield offered the information that he was a distant relation of the widow’s; she was his cousin from the English branch of his family.

In the meantime, Dr. Idlewyld applied sal volatile to the fainting Louisa in an effort to restore her to sensibility. The girl recovered slowly from her swoon with much fluttering of eyelashes and soft breathy sounds. Idlewyld muttered something about loosening her corset, which made Louisa spring to awareness as if hot coals had been applied to her feet. She burst into tears and buried her face in the doctor’s waistcoast, clinging to him like a particularly soggy limpet. As she was a very pretty girl despite the tears, it seemed that Idlewyld did not much mind.

“Poor man,” Rhiannon said, leaning companionably against Lina and nodding at the corpse. “It wasn’t a very pleasant way to die.”

“All persons aspire to slip away peacefully at the ripe old age of one hundred, my dear, but in my experience, death is often violent or painful or both, and usually unexpected.” Lina squeezed Rhiannon’s buttock surreptitiously and was rewarded with a side-long glance from beneath the other woman’s lashes that made her spine tingle.

“How do you suppose the poison was introduced into Mr. Barnabas?” Rhiannon asked, shifting her focus to the scattered detritus of the picnic.

“That is a question,” Lina answered, pushing a stray lock of black hair behind her ear. Murder was hard on the coiffure; half her pins had been loosened in the excitement. “Let us wait upon Harry, since he has official sanction here. I am certain that I can winkle the facts out of him when he has finished his interrogation.”

Rhiannon smiled; Lina’s heart was so swollen and tender with affection, she could not help the idiotic grin that stretched across her own mouth. Nearly two years together and she could not imagine life without her fiery, red-headed partner.

“In the meantime,” Lina said after regaining control of herself, “let us beg a quantity of empty bottles from the onlookers. I wish to take samples of the picnic stuff in order to test for the poison myself. The police laboratory is adequate for the court’s purposes but I would prefer to verify the work with my own hands.”

“What poison is it?”

“Did I not tell you? Prussic acid, my dear. At least, I believe it to be so based upon the symptoms that Mr. Barnabas displayed.”

“Prussic acid…” Rhiannon frowned. “That sounds familiar.”

Before Lina could expand upon the subject, Valentine sauntered over, his storm-gray eyes narrowed to slits. “Well, I’ll wait upon the surgeon to confirm your diagnosis, milady. Barnabas may have been poisoned, but he may also have choked on a chicken bone.”

Lina was about to give him her opinion of his opinion – Harry Valentine had known her long enough to show a modicum of trust – when it suddenly struck her that the Barnabas’ picnic goods were unusual, to say the least. The damage done by Dr. Idlewyld’s spaniel could not explain what was scattered over the blanket. She got down on her knees, the better to examine the mess.

Vichyssoise – she wrinkled her nose at cold potato and leek soup – had made a creamy white splash on the blanket. The orange pool in the corner was carrot soup flavored with (from the smell) plenty of dill. There was evidence of turtle soup, a nice clear consommé au naturel, something that she tentatively identified as potage a la Crécy from the Wellington supper rooms in Piccadilly, and an oxtail soup spiked with sherry.

No bread, no fruit, no meat… just soups which had, Lina discovered when she peered into the Barnabas’ hamper, been preserved at the proper temperature in large glass bottles. The party had been eating their meal of soup out of earthenware bowls; each ‘place’ was set with a water glass, a spoon and a napkin. No, not a single spoon, Lina thought. Simon Barnabas had six spoons, while the rest made do with one apiece.

Someone nudged her shoulder. Lina looked up; it was Rhiannon, balancing a number of empty beer bottles in her arms. “Will this be enough for your samples?” Rhiannon asked.

“Yes, my dear, more than sufficient,” Lina replied. She took the bottles and proceeded to take a sample from each of the spilled soups on the blanket. On the chance that the prussic acid had been present in the man’s bowls, she took those, too, and all six of Barnabas’ spoons, blessing Rhiannon when the woman distracted Inspector Valentine by asking after a mutual acquaintance. Lina quickly turned up the hem of her petticoat and pinned it to form a large pocket under her voluminous skirts, large enough to hold her booty securely.

Rising, she joined Rhiannon and said to Valentine, “If you are quite done reminiscing on the career of ‘Blinker’ Pinker the one-eyed burglar, I ought to be returning home.”

“If you must,” Valentine said, giving Rhiannon a friendly wink. “You remember me in your prayers, luv. I reckon the Good Lord’ll listen to an angel like you instead of an old reprobate like me.”

Rhiannon chuckled, gave him a brilliant smile, and took Lina’s arm.

It was the work of a moment to gather their own picnic things and summon their carriage driver, Henry, to take them back to their house in Grosvenor Street.

As soon as they returned home, Lina took her bottles and bowls and spoons to the study. The footmen were kept busy fetching instruments and apparatus from the attic. Soon, she had a small chemical laboratory set up on a table near the Chinese screen that hid the overflowing bookcase. The butler, Jackson, was sent out to the chemist’s to purchase some necessary materials. By the time he came back with his packages, Lina was ready to begin.

Rhiannon remained coiled upon the green velvet settee, chin in hand, while Lina prepared the samples. Unfortunately, testing for prussic acid was a meticulous, time-consuming process. First, one had to combine the sample with chlorine; if the poisonous substance was present, cyanogen chloride would be formed. That was the first step. There were several others. While she worked, Lina explained the process to her watchful lover.

“The introduction of pyridine into the flask should form glutocondialdehyde, which, when combined with dimethylbarbituric acid, will turn the substance a violet color if cyanide is present,” Lina said. “The intensity of the hue varies upon the strength of the poison.”

Rhiannon sat up straight. “Did you say cyanide?”

“Yes, I did.” Lina put the flask down on the table. The color had not changed; no prussic acid was present. She marked the result on a scrap of paper.

“You said before it was prussic acid!”

“My dear, hydrogen cyanide and prussic acid are one and the same.”

Rhiannon bit her lip, then blurted, “The photographer did it. Mr. Butterfield.”

Lina had donned a white smock before beginning her work; she wiped her hands on the protective muslin garment and inquired, “How do you know this, my dear?” It was not that she did not believe Rhiannon, but the law – and logic – demanded proof.

“My late father’s hobby was photography. He poisoned himself with potassium cyanide, which is used in the photographic process.” Rhiannon shivered. She stood and fetched a paisley shawl, which she wrapped around her shoulders. “Would potassium cyanide work as well as hydrogen cyanide?”

“Oh, yes, for a murderer’s purposes, the two substances work in similar fashion.” Lina considered her next words carefully; she did not want to hurt Rhiannon’s feelings. “Mr. Butterfield certainly had access to cyanide, but that is not the only question which must be answered. He had means and opportunity… but what was his motive?”

“I don’t know,” Rhiannon said. “He seemed somewhat close to Mrs. Barnabas, but she was in shock and he is a relation, although a distant one.”

“We have only his word for that.” Lina picked up a new sample – the turtle soup, she thought. “Let me complete the laboratory tasks first, then we will pay a visit to Inspector Valentine in Scotland Yard… provided we have news to tell.”

Rhiannon nodded, but she was hugging herself and seemed somewhat distressed. Lina laid aside her experiment and crossed the room to her lover’s side. “My dear,” she said, putting her arms around the smaller woman and holding her close. “Is it your father?”

“I did love him,” Rhiannon said, her mouth drawn into a thin line. The muscles in her shoulders were rigid. “He left me. He knew I needed him and he left me.”

Lina cupped Rhiannon’s delicate, wing-like shoulder bones in her hands and rubbed her nose along the woman’s hairline. “He was not a well man, my dear. I do not condone his behavior, but I can understand the weight of despondency that can drive a person to attempt suicide and succeed.”

A gush of hot tears against the side of her throat, where Rhiannon had pressed her face, made Lina continued, “Oh, my dear… my dear…” and rub soothing circles on the weeping woman’s back. She wished, not for the first time, that William Foster Moore was burning in Hell for the trauma he had inflicted on his daughter.

She bent her head, nudging Rhiannon until she could press her mouth against her lover’s tear-slick lips. Rhiannon let out a sound that was half-sob, half-groan, and opened her mouth to Lina’s gentle pressure. Lina slipped her tongue inside; Rhiannon tasted like salt and strawberries and champagne, mixed with the taint of an old, old sorrow. She licked at the inside of Rhiannon’s mouth, chasing the flavors until the other woman suddenly relaxed against her, a warm boneless weight in her arms.

Lina had to tear herself away when scarlet-tinged sparkles drifted in the darkness behind her closed eyelids. She shuddered and sucked in a deep breath, barely hearing Rhiannon’s whimper. The sound did register, however. Lina opened her eyes. Rhiannon was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. The depth of Lina’s affection was bottomless, an abyss from which she never wanted to escape. She was drowning in desire; wave after wave of ardent feeling engulfing her until she could do nothing else except kiss Rhiannon again and again and again, reveling in the sweet, wet, addictive heat.

Rhiannon’s arms were around her neck. The skin was silky, but not as soft as the little patch of flesh between her belly and her thigh. Lina stared at the creamy mounds of Rhiannon’s breasts, exposed by a generous décolletage, and licked her lips in anticipation. Impatient to reach the prize that she hungered for, she hooked her fingers into Rhiannon’s bodice and tore downwards with all her strength. The cherry-amber silk came apart with a sound like a whisper, bits of tattered lace drifting to the floor to join the remnants of the gown around her lover’s ankles.

Lina fell upon Rhiannon like a starving wolf, bearing the other woman backwards onto the settee. Her victim giggled rather than screamed… even when she was being gobbled alive.

It was not until the following morning that Lina was able to compete her tests. The results made her raise an eyebrow until it ached. Not quite what she expected, and there remained the troublesome question of motive, but there was evidence that needed to be presented to Scotland Yard.

She had also promised to buy Rhiannon a new dress to replace the one she had ruined. Lina felt a tinge of color creep up her cheeks. Ah, sweet memories! The ragged remains of cherry-amber silk were carefully preserved in a box in the back of her wardrobe, a memento of one of the most fulfilling nights she had ever spent squeezed into a back-breaking position on the settee. A smile creased her strong-boned face. She could not wait to repeat the experience as soon as she could persuade Rhiannon to agree to an encore.

With some reluctance, Lina turned her attention back to the Barnabas poisoning.

Rather than go to Scotland Yard, Lina elected to send a note to Inspector Valentine, asking him to join her in Grosvenor Street. His arrival coincided with the tea tray brought into the study by a footman. Valentine let out the glad cry of a bachelor condemned to the indifference of his own cooking, and wasted no time tucking into egg-and-cress and tomato sandwiches with the crusts cut off, Eccles cake and toasted muffins dripping with butter.

Rhiannon, a woman who enjoyed her afternoon tea, watched Valentine make a proper pig of himself with some dismay before ringing Jackson to bring more sandwiches and cake from the kitchen. Lina stifled her amusement and poured tea, although she did have to wince at the obscene amount of sugar cubes that Valentine dropped into his milk-laced cup.

At last, his appetite satisfied, Valentine sat back, made a discreet belch behind his hand, and said, “Thank ‘ee kindly for the tea, milady. Now what can I do for thee, eh?”

Lina showed him the things she had taken from the picnic, earning a cry of outrage from the man. “B’God, milady, that ain’t fair doings!” Valentine said, his cheeks gone red with fury. “You stole them spoons from under my nose!”

“So I did, Harry,” Lina replied calmly. “Now do you want to waste time berating me for my sins, or do you wish to solve this case?”

“Don’t think we won’t have more words about your sticky fingers,” Valentine grumbled, but Rhiannon thoughtfully supplied him with a slice of Cook’s best lemon tart, and he subsided into a sort of sugar-induced state of semi-bonhomie.

“Can you tell me, Harry, whose idea was the picnic?” Lina asked.

“Mrs. Barnabas, or so the daughter says,” Valentine replied. “The soup was her idea, too, being as how the late Mr. Barnabas was having some trouble with his teeth.”

“I see. Why did Barnabas use six spoons instead of one?”

“To hear Mrs. Barnabas tell the tale, her husband was one of those fastidious fellows that can’t stand a flyspeck. When he ate his supper, he used a different fork and knife for every item on his plate, not just different cutlery for every course. Daft, eh? Oh, beg pardon… Barnabas was eccentric ‘cause he could afford not to be mad,” Valentine snorted. “A poorer man we’d have just called insane and sent to Colney Hatch in a leather jacket.”

“Did everyone eat the same?”

“Yes, all four of them ate some of each soup.”

Lina sat back on the settee, steepled her fingers together and asked the final question that would either confirm or deny her suspicions. “Harry, you have a keen sense of judgment when it comes to your fellow man. What is your impression of the relationship between Mr. Butterfield and Mrs. Barnabas?”

Valentine’s sandy brows came together in a frown. “What might you be after, milady?”

“The truth, of course.”

“As to that, I had a wee chat with the Barnabas’ butler, a cheeky fellow name of Quillard,” he said, hooking his thumbs in the pockets of his waistcoat. “You know servants, milady; they see everything, they hear everything, and for a bit of cash, they’re willing to tell everything.”

“Pas devant les domestiques,” Lina murmured.

“So you say, milady.” Valentine delayed a few moments choosing a cigar from a case that he took from the inner pocket of his gray-and-cream checked jacket. After the business of lighting the cigar with a lucifer and seeing that it was drawing properly, the inspector continued, “Quillard says that Mr. Fred Butterfield showed up about two months ago claiming a cousin’s privilege from Henrietta Barnabas. The husband was happy to accommodate his wife’s relation; ‘tweren’t no skin off his nose to give bed n’ board to an American abroad. Only Simon Barnabas didn’t know his wife was sneaking into Butterfield’s bedchamber at night, when she thought everyone was asleep. She never reckoned on Quillard bein’ one of those chappies whatt can’t go to bed without a drink or two of the master’s brandy.”

Rhiannon nodded. “Motive,” she said to Lina.

“Cui bono?” Lina asked Valentine, who blew a smoke ring and professed his ignorance. She repeated the question in English: “Who benefits? I assume his wife is the principle beneficiary in Mr. Barnabas’ will.”

“I’ve not had time to question the family solicitor but I reckon you’re right,” Valentine said. “Now, milady, it’s my turn to ask the questions, if you don’t mind.”

“As a matter of fact, I do mind,” Lina said, cutting him off rather rudely. “Harry, I know who murdered Simon Barnabas; I know how it was done and why. If you would be so kind as to request the presences of Henrietta Barnabas, Frederick Butterfield and Louisa Barnabas here tonight, I shall reveal all.”

“What are you, a bleedin’ conjurer? You’ll tell me now, milady, or I’ll know the reason why!”

Lina smiled in the face of Valentine’s bluster. “Tonight, Harry,” she repeated.

Familiar with the lady’s stubbornness - and moved to toleration by an excellent repast - Valentine gave in with a frustrated grunt.

That evening, the scene was set. Lina had sent out to several restaurants to obtain the right sort of soups, while Rhiannon was dispatched in the carriage with a wad of notes in order to purchase the rest of the required stage props. When Mrs. Barnabas, her daughter Louisa, and Mr. Butterfield arrived at Grosvenor Street, they found a reconstruction of their ill-starred picnic laid out in the study. A blanket was spread on the floor. Earthenware bowls, cutlery and napkins were set out in the correct places; the hamper itself was off to one side.

“Is this some sort of disgusting joke?” Henrietta asked. She was a handsome, thin woman whose complexion owed a good deal to rouge and pearl powder. Her brunette hair was tightly curled. Deep lines carved from nose to mouth were evidence of a spleenish nature; Lina would have wagered that Henrietta Barnabas rarely smiled.

In contrast, her daughter Louisa was pretty, pert and a dreadful flirt. Lina had seen the girl trying to work her infantile wiles on Dr. Idlewyld in the park; now she witnessed the painful spectacle of Miss Louisa batting her eyelashes and wriggling her hips at poor Harry Valentine. Judging the inspector’s color, Lina thought he was mortified.

Fortunately for Valentine’s countenance, Rhiannon intervened, sending Louisa to sit on the blanket in approximately the same position as she had been the day before. The bewhiskered Mr. Butterfield was persuaded to assume his proper place. Although she continued to protest, Henrietta allowed herself to be lowered to the floor.

Lina knew that she was shamelessly indulging her love of the melodramatic and theatrical, but it felt good to have an audience, even if it was a captive one. “It is incumbent upon me to make this announcement,” she began, glancing around to gauge the expressions of the people staring at her. “I shan’t be coy but state my business baldly - Simon Barnabas was murdered yesterday by someone in this room.”

As she had anticipated, there was a loud and noisy burst of protests from both of the Barnabas women – Louisa was particularly shrill for such a young, tender creature – but Mr. Butterfield overrode them. “I have never been so insulted in my life!” he bellowed. “How dare you, madam! I cannot believe this farce is approved by the authorities. You, sir, ought to be ashamed!” He shook his finger at Valentine. The inspector shrugged.

“Shut your hole or I’ll shut it for you,” Valentine said in a silky drawl. His rude response was so shocking, Butterfield’s mouth closed with a click.

“Thank you,” Lina said to Valentine. “To continue… I do not know who formulated the plot, but I can tell you this – Mr. Barnabas was poisoned with potassium cyanide.” To quell the new uproar which greeted her words, she held up both hands for silence. Valentine put on his best glare, which proved most effective.

When she was certain of being heard, Lina said, “The poison was not in any of the soups because all four members of the party consumed a sample of each. My tests have concluded that cyanide was not present in the earthenware dishes that Mr. Barnabas ate from. The true culprit was a most unusual article at the picnic. Can you guess what I mean?” She tilted her head. “Can you guess, Mrs. Barnabas? Mr. Butterfield?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Henrietta said.

“Your husband was an extremely fastidious gentleman. His habits were, to say the least, somewhat eccentric.” Lina went to the fireplace, her blue taffeta skirts rustling, and rested an elbow against the mantelpiece. “I have heard that he required a different set of cutlery for each item on his dinner plate.”

Henrietta snapped, “What of it?”

“Simon Barnabas needed six spoons at the picnic – one for each of the different soups which you caused to be purchased, Mrs. Barnabas. Soup is such an unusual item to bring to a summer picnic. I must ask myself why you did not choose more traditional fare.”

“My husband suffered from bad teeth.”

“It is more than that.” Lina suddenly stooped down to contront the seated woman. “Mrs. Barnabas, the amount of cyanide solution that can be painted on a knife or fork is fairly minimal, but on the bowl of a spoon…! And six spoons at that, madam – enough potassium cyanide to kill a man. Hence the soup, since you were familiar with your late husband’s habits. Each spoonful that Simon Barnabas consumed brought him closer to his doom.”

A bead of sweat slipped down Henrietta’s brow. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Lina pointed a finger at her. “Shall I spell it out for you, madam?” She swung that finger to include Mr. Butterfield. “You were having an affair with this man under your husband’s very nose. Yes, there is a witness to your infidelity. You and your lover plotted to be rid of an inconvenient spouse. Butterfield has access to potassium cyanide; it is a chemical much used in the photographer’s profession. Did he lead you to the murder, madam, or was it you who seduced him into committing the deed?”

“No!” Henrietta gasped, while at the same time, Louisa Barnabas drew her hand back and slapped Mr. Butterfield hard enough to knock him over.

“You poncy bastard!” Louisa shrilled, her face turning an ugly shade of brick red. “You told me I was the only one!”

In her astonishment at this unexpected development, Lina lost her balance and fell into the carrot soup, which stained her taffeta skirts beyond repair.

Sometime later, when Valentine had departed with his prisoners – mother and daughter having turned upon Butterfield, whose crime other than a murder conspiracy was to believe he could get away with playing the merry sultan with two females in the same house – Lina sat on the settee with a well-earned whiskey-and-soda.

Rhiannon sat next to her, giggling from time to time. That was probably due to the fact that Lina was caressing the other woman’s toes with her free hand.

“Poor Simon Barnabas,” Lina sighed, sipping from her glass and watching Rhiannon out of the corner of her eye. “For him, cleanliness was truly next to Godliness; had he not been such an hygienically obsessed individual, it is doubtful that Butterfield’s plot would have gone off as successfully as it did.”

“Poor Mr. Butterfield,” Rhiannon replied, plucking the glass out of Lina’s hand and taking a sip before putting it on the floor. “The Chinese write using a system of pictograms. The pictogram illustrating ‘discord’ is two women under one roof. Of course, however wise the Chinese are supposed to be, that’s not been my experience at all.”

“Oh?”

“I would never describe what is between us as discord, my love.”

“How would you describe us, my dear?”

“Words simply will not suffice.”

Lina tensed.

Rhiannon pounced.

“Perhaps a practical demonstration is in order,” Rhiannon whispered, her hands rucking up Lina’s skirts, her voice muffled against Lina’s bodice.

“Oh… oh… oh!”

The glass of whiskey-and-soda was tipped over onto the hearth rug, but neither woman noticed.

THE END

<~~~~~ Return to the Library

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The Disappearance of the Devil's Eye by Nene Adams ©2004 - All rights reserved
A Gaslight Series Short Story (formerly available to Supporters of the Library)

From his brimstone bed at break of day
A walking the DEVIL is gone,
To visit his little snug farm of the earth
And see how his stock went on.
---Samuel Taylor Coleridge, The Devil's Thoughts

n Afghanistan it was called the Eye of Shaitan," said the Duchess gravely, looking at each of her dinner guests in turn. Between the thumb and forefinger of her hand, the white-haired lady held a sullenly gleaming ruby as big as a baby's fist. The unset stone looked like a drop of petrified blood from some fantastic leviathan of the ancient world.

She continued, "In that poor benighted country, the holy men say that whoever owns the Devil's Eye does not truly possess it, but merely borrows the ruby for a time at Shaitan's leisure. When the Devil wishes its return, he reaches out an invisible hand and poof!" The Duchess made a gesture. "The stone returns to its diabolical master, not to be seen again until it re-emerges whenever and wherever Beelzebub pleases." She laid the ruby on the table next to her plate and paused, plainly awaiting some appreciation of her story.

Lady Evangeline St. Claire - known as Lina to her friends, and especially to an old family friend like the Duchess of Concaster - delicately struck her water glass with the flat of her knife several times in lieu of applause. "A most excellent tale, Your Grace, and an intriguing one, to boot. Have you experienced this supernatural disappearance yourself?"

"I must be honest and tell you no," replied the Duchess, sampling a small amount of rich red wine offered by a footman in knee breeches, and nodding her acceptance. The periwigged servant began filling glasses around the table. "However, the fellow who sold it to me swore on the head of his agéd grandmother that everything he said was as true as the Prophet's word itself."

"Such a fellow would probably swear to anything if money was involved," Algernon Hubble said, wrinkling his nose fastidiously. Candlelight gleamed in rippling waves along his pomade-slicked blonde hair. He dabbed at the little brush of a mustache on his upper lip with his napkin. "Although the stone is genuine, you undoubtedly paid an inflated price for a bit of poppycock that wouldn't be out of place in the nursery."

Beside him, his wife, Lady Mary - the Duchess' daughter and only child - blew out an aggrieved sigh and shrugged her smooth white shoulders. "Really, Algie, you can be so dreadfully dull."

He ignored Mary, instead sipping his wine. He grimaced. Algernon turned to the Duchess' young niece, who was seated at his left, saying, "My dear Allegra, this vin ordinaire stuff is raw as turpentine. Could you not have afforded to bring a decent vintage from France? I know Her Grace gives you an adequate allowance."

"There is nothing wrong with the Bordeaux," Allegra answered pertly, eyes narrowing into gleaming blue slits. "You're just being hateful, Algie!"

The burly woman seated across the table from her scowled. "Are you down on my 'Legra?" she growled at Algernon, her displeasure clearly visible above the bristling floral display set in the center of the cloth. "I ain't having that, m'lad. She's an angel and you'll treat her as such, or else!" An oak-knot fist struck the snowy tablecloth with enough force to make wine slop over the rims of the filled glasses.

Allegra murmured, "Please, Olympia, no scenes at dinner. You promised most faithfully."

Olympia shot Algernon a hateful glare and returned her attention to the entreé. The fork and knife she held were dwarfed by the size of her hands; overall, she was taller than most men and built along heroic dimensions. Olympia cut off a piece of côte de boeuf Youssoupoff and shoved it in her mouth, still scowling.

"I should not worry overmuch about Miss Allegra," Lina said to Olympia, her emerald eyes twinkling. "Any young lady who has lived amongst the Bohemian set in Paris, in the very heart of Montmartre, is surely capable of mounting a defense against all comers. Much like yourself, I might add. Miss Olympia Newnham, billed as the Female Hercules, the Strongest Woman in Britain. I saw you wrestle Big Mike O'Shannon several years ago in Covent Garden - a most thrilling match."

"'Twas naught," Olympia snorted, polishing off the beef in a few bites and signaling the footman for another serving. "Besides, what goes 'twixt 'Legra an' me ain't none of your business, milady, so push off or get pushed, savvy?"

Rather than alarm, Lina showed only amusement at the giantess' threat. She remained relaxed in her seat, smiling as though she was in her box at the Opera, enjoying some exotic stage offering.

"Now see here," Algernon said to Olympia. He was the very picture of affront. "You won't get away with such behavior, my good woman! You may be able to bully the Frogs, Miss Newnham, but I shan't be scolded at my mother-in-law's table, nor will I stand idly by while you insult a respectable lady!" He threw his napkin down on his plate, a knight issuing challenge with a linen gauntlet.

"No fisticuffs, please!" Allegra begged, but there was a glint of slyness in her otherwise innocent blue gaze that Rhiannon did not like. She thought that Allegra found the idea of two people fighting over her to be quite exciting. "I must implore you both to behave in front of our guests," the young woman continued. "Such antics do you no credit at all."

"How dare you admonish me," Algernon cried, "you little baggage!"

Olympia rose and continued to rise to her full height, until she loomed over the dining table like a veritable female Goliath. She rumbled, "Take that back, or b'God, you'll rue opening that gob!"

"Algie!" shouted Mary and the Duchess simultaneously, apparently scandalized, while Allegra squeaked, "Oh, Olympia!"

Olympia and Algernon eyed one another, each swelling with indignation.

Mary shrugged again, her shoulders rising like rounded waves from the swathes of netting on her gown's bodice, only to sink back once more into the seafoam lace. "Algie is, as we all know, a gentleman of the most delicate sensibilities. Lady St. Claire, Miss Moore, please accept my apologies for my husband's deplorable manners."

Rhiannon Moore, Lina's companion and life-partner, said graciously. "It's quite all right, Lady Mary. There's no need to apologize. I'm sure that Mr. Hubbard didn't mean anything by it." Her copper-beaded gown was a perfect foil for the mass of artfully arranged strawberry-blonde locks that were plaited and held in place in her elaborate coiffure with gold-and-turquoise pins.

"I would beg to differ, however I'll hold my tongue for the nonce," Mary said, smiling. "Do sit down, Miss Newnham. The poulet Parmentier is about to be served."

Allegra added her own imploring glances. Olympia blinked, then slowly sank down in her seat again. Lina coughed to stifle a chuckle; Rhiannon nudged the dark-haired woman with her elbow as a domestic warning from one spouse to another. The situation was volatile enough without Lina stirring the pot. Dinner at the Duchess of Concaster's home was already proving to be beyond the social norm and well into the realm of melodrama. While Rhiannon understood that Lina had an innate fondness for the theatrical, she was determined that her partner would not spoil the evening any further.

At the sideboard, the Duchess' butler carved the chicken and a footman began serving. Another footman in wig and breeches passed around dishes of haricots verts nouveaux de Poissy and pommes nouvelles, while yet a third servant began clearing the red wine glasses in preparation for pouring a crisp Sauvignon Blanc. Allegra put a hand over her own glass of Bordeaux to signal that she did not wish it removed.

Still fuming, Algernon took some food then stabbed at his plate, sending a potato skittering across the table. The flying vegetable nearly knocked over a candlestick. Cutting into her chicken with too much vigor, Allegra bumped him and made Algernon spill a glass of Sauvignon Blanc over the sleeve of his jacket, in addition to flooding his dinner plate. A quelling glance from the Duchess made him swallow whatever exclamation he was about to make and allow the butler to fuss over him with a napkin. Mary supervised the whisking away of her husband's ruined meal and the substitution of a fresh plate.

Once her son-in-law had been served, the Duchess sat back as much as her rigidly corseted figure would allow. Suddenly, she straightened bolt upright. The color in her cheeks faded to an unhealthy ashen hue. Her trembling forefinger pointed towards the empty space beside her plate.

"It's gone!" she said, her voice hoarse with astonishment and dread. "The Devil's Eye is gone!"

A footman dropped the carafe of white wine he was holding in order to catch the Duchess as she slid out of her chair, unconscious.

~~~o~O~o~~~

"What has happened?" Rhiannon asked, applying a handkerchief soaked in eau-de-cologne to the stricken woman's temples. She was seated on the floor, the Duchess' head in her lap. Soft tendrils of red-gold hair framed her pretty face. Rhiannon glanced up at her partner, who was frowning thoughtfully.

"It seems that the Infernal Shaitan has paid us a visit from Hell," Lina quipped, "and without leaving behind the traditional whiff of brimstone." She pinned the unfortunate butler with an emerald glare. "No one is to leave this room. No one! Do you understand?"

The man replied, "Yes, milady," his jowls quivering.

"Oh, God," the Duchess groaned. "My ruby..."

"Do not fear, Your Grace," Lina said. "The culprit and the stone will be discovered. You have my word."

Between them, Rhiannon and Mary managed to get the Duchess to her feet and installed back in her chair. The white-haired woman huffed and puffed, her corset creaking under the strain. "What happens here must never be mentioned outside this room," the Duchess said sotto voce to Lina. "There must be no hint of scandal."

Lina nodded, the ostrich plumes of her headdress rising like smoke above her sleek black head. "Of course, Your Grace. However, I must be permitted to question everyone without reservation. It is agreed?"

"No, by Jove, it is not!" Algernon burst out. "Who are you, madam, and why should I submit myself to any damned interrogation?"

"Because the alternative is to strip you to your skin in order to prove that you did not take the Devil's Eye," Lina said, cocking her head to one side. "If you think that I will not dare, Mr. Hubbard, you are sorely mistaken. I am certain that Miss Newnham would be more than willing to lend her assistance to the proceedings."

Olympia gave Algernon an unpleasant grin and cracked her knuckles loudly. "Aye, with pleasure."

"Oh, Algie, don't make such a fuss!" Mary exclaimed. "You may question me to your heart's content, Lady St. Claire. I have nothing to hide. Indeed, I believe that I have something to confess."

Algernon subsided with ill grace, muttering under his breath.

"A moment's indulgence if you would, Lady Mary." Lina turned to regard Olympia Newnham. "Our Female Hercules is one of the most obvious suspects." She paid no attention to Olympia's sullen expression. "It may not be generally known to the others, but I make it a habit of remembering criminals and crime. Is it not true, Miss Newnham, that five years ago you were prosecuted and found guilty of theft after Lady Childress' pearls were stolen?"

"I didn't do nothin'. I didn't!"

"I am not accusing you of anything, Miss Newnham, merely reiterating the facts. Three years in Holloway prison is a fact that cannot be denied."

"It couldn't be poor Olympia," Allegra said, picking up her glass of red wine and coming around the table to comfort her burly friend. "She'd never steal that nasty old ruby."

Olympia put an oversized hand on Allegra's head and rubbed her friend's golden curls gently.

"A thief?" the Duchess asked faintly. "Allegra, you never told me that Miss Newnham was a thief!"

"Olympia doesn't do that anymore. She's an iron lady and a wrestler that I befriended in Paris. You know that, Auntie Rose!" Allegra said indignantly.

Mary said, "I have a motive for stealing Mama's jewel. Don't I, Algie?" Her dark eyes gleamed.

"Mary, darling, don't... I beg you..." Algernon turned white; beads of sweat sprang up on his brow.

"Algie is Mama's financial manager," Mary said, a queer expression of triumph on her face. "He has debts. Gambling debts, since Algie's rather fond of the horses. My husband likes a sporting flutter but his luck isn't very good. I believe Algie owes something in excess of three thousand pounds to a violent-tempered gentleman by the name of Harry Smalls."

"Harry the Hand?" Rhiannon asked. She flushed slightly when all eyes focused on her. "He's not unknown to me, at least by reputation. Harry Smalls is quite violent, Lina, and he doesn't tolerate men who don't honor their debts. They say the bottom of the Thames is littered with the corpses of men who have crossed Harry Smalls."

"Well done, my dear. That explains a possible motive for Mr. Hubbard, but why should you be suspected?" Lina asked Mary.

Mary made her habitual shrug. "Despite appearances, I love Algie dearly and I don't want to see him taking swimming lessons whilst chained to a rock! My own income is insufficient to pay Algie's debts. I've given him everything, even pawned my jewels. Mama has refused to give me any more aid unless I meet her unreasonable demands."

"I have indeed refused," the Duchess said, "Had Algernon's father given him a stricter upbringing, the boy would not be wasting his money on games of chance. The only thing I have demanded from you, daughter, is that you leave your husband to his own devices. That is the only logical course. Naturally, I will support my own flesh and blood in the manner to which you have become accustomed, but I will not support a drain upon my resources like a habitual gambler."

"Mother!" Algernon had wilted somewhat during his wife's recitation, but his mother-in-law's bluntless appeared to have affected him even more deeply. He swiped at his sweaty brow. "It's true, I owe Harry Smalls money. He's been pressing me for payment. But I swear by Almighty God, I did not steal that ruby!"

"Nor did I," Mary said. She gave Algernon a pitying look and patted his arm. "Bear up, dearest. We'll find a way."

"And what about you, Miss Allegra?" Lina asked. "Have you a motive as well?"

Olympia grumbled, but subsided when Allegra stroked the woman's muscular arm and whispered reassurances. Facing Lina at last, Allegra said with commendable coolness, "One can always use a spot of cash."

"Is there a specific reason why you might need additional funds?"

"That would be telling."

"Come along, Miss Allegra, do not be coy."

Rhiannon studied Allegra from beneath her lashes. Her late father, a tutor, sometimes had to deal with young ladies in the schoolroom. Rhiannon had learned how to deal with willfull females by watching his example. Accordingly, she adopted a waspish tone and a fierce mien. "You must confess, my girl, and do so at once! Delay won't be tolerated a moment longer, nor will disrespect! Stand up straight, shoulders back, and answer the lady's question."

"I declare, my dear, it quite takes me back to the nursery," Lina murmured.

Olympia started forward, then shrank back when Rhiannon raised a coppery brow and tapped her toe against the floor. Rhiannon knew how to deal with bullies, too. A show of strength almost always cowed them; the giantess was no exception.

Lina leaned a hip against the edge of the dining table and grinned her approval.

"Oh, very well, have it your way!" Allegra cried, a pretty pout turning her features to china-doll loveliness. "To be perfectly frank, Miss Moore, my aunt gives me a generous allowance. Why, Olympia and I went to dear old Monte - that's Monte Carlo to you, Algie - and had a marvelous time. Why should I take Auntie Rose's ruby?"

Allegra gestured, careful of the glass of red wine she was still holding. "Why don't you interrogate the servants, Lady St. Claire? Or better still... why don't you ask Algie what he did with it."

"Infamous wench!"

"Algernon! Allegra!" the Duchess said, almost shrieking in her agitation. Making a visible effort to regain her equilibrium, she continued in a more modulated but still steely tone, "Let us maintain some sense of decorum, I beg you."

The butler was conferring with the footmen in a corner of the room. He came forward, clearing his throat. "Begging your pardon, Your Grace," he said to the Duchess, "but Tom, Peter, John and myself are willing to be searched by Mr. Hubbard or by the police should you deem it necessary."

"Never mind," Lina said, overriding whatever the Duchess was about to say, "although I am sure that we all appreciate your show of integrity. However, the identity of the thief is already known to me."

Rhiannon had an inkling, too, but everyone else gaped in astonishment at the startling pronouncement.

~~~o~O~o~~~

"What? Who is it?" demanded the Duchess. "Where is my ruby?"

Rhiannon drew breath and stole Lina's thunder by announcing, "It was Miss Allegra who took the Devil's Eye."

Before the young woman could respond, Lina reached over and took the glass from Allegra's hand, tipping the contents onto the table. A wave of rich red wine splashed out, followed by a ruby the size of a baby's fist that came tumbling from the glass. The precious stone fetched up against a flower vase, then lay upon the stained cloth, shimmering like a leviathan-sized drop of frozen blood. The Duchess picked up the ruby, holding it tightly in her hand as if afraid the stone might vanish into thin air a second time.

Algernon leaped up from his chair with an oath, having narrowly missing being drenched. "What's this, Allegra?"

"What does it look like, Algie?" Allegra's reply was flippant but there was a gleam of desperation in her eyes.

"Oh, miss!" Olympia moaned in disappointment. "I'd no notion at all!"

"How much did you lose at the casinos in Monte Carlo?" Lina inquired.

"More than I can afford," Allegra said bleakly. Despair cast a pall over her china-doll features. "A certain Count has acquired my promissory notes. If I cannot pay him..." She broke off and shuddered. Olympia put a supportive arm around her waist, having to stoop a little to do so, and Allegra continued, "Let us say that his demands would not be considered excessive if the Count was a Turk and I, a Circassian slave. As matters stand, I am ruined whether I accept his suit or deny it, for I cannot make good my debts."

She asked Lina, "How did you know?"

"There were a few clues. The first was your glass of wine; you were the only person at the table who refused to exchange their Bordeaux for Sauvignon Blanc," Lina said. "The color of the first liquid is ideal for concealing a ruby."

"From the moment that the Devil's Eye was discovered to be missing, I noticed that you kept the glass in your hand," Rhiannon said. "You even picked up the wineglass and took it with you when you moved around the table to join Miss Newnham."

Lina nodded. "As a distraction, you deliberately jogged Mr. Hubbard's elbow, causing him to spill his own glass. While the rest of the guests were focused on Mr. Hubbard and the servants, you quickly snatched the ruby from the table and concealed it in the Bordeaux. I must congratulate you; that piece of misdirection was as adept as many a stage magician's. And it was a clever plot, Miss Allegra. A search of your person would eliminate you from the suspect list."

"No doubt you intended to make some excuse to take the full wineglass to your room before the footmen could clear the table." Rhiannon felt rather sorry for the girl. "Did you hope that Miss Newnham would help you sell the Devil's Eye?"

"No," Allegra said, "because Olympia is my friend. I intended to give the confounded thing to the Count, to do with as he pleased."

The Duchess confronted her niece directly. "Why didn't you come to me, child? Why resort to theft?"

"Because you hate gamblers," Allegra exclaimed. "You've been down on Algernon for years because of his habit. Just recently, you told poor Mary that she had to leave him or go to the Devil. What was I to think, Auntie Rose? What reason did I have to believe that you would help me instead of condemning me to a fate of my own making?"

"It was wrong of me to be so cruel, I know," the Duchess said, "but I am not lacking in compassion, dear girl. Do you truly think I'd allow my son-in-law to be harmed by common thugs and ruffians? I've already had my solicitor redeem Algernon's notes from Mr. Smalls. I merely wanted to teach him a lesson in responsibility."

"Oh, Mother!" Mary cried, and clasped her husband's hand in so fierce a grip that he made a muffled noise of protest. "You've kept us dangling above the abyss for a fortnight! Poor Algie's been in a fright day and night, almost too terrified to stir out of doors."

"Good! Perhaps he will consider his finances more carefully in the future. I shan't send any more good money after bad, Algernon. This is the last time. Expect no further assistance from me unless the matter is one of legitimate business."

"Yes, of course, Mother. T-t-thank you!" Algernon stuttered.

"And as for you, Miss Allegra," the Duchess said, fixing an awful eye upon her errant niece, "we shall sit down together and have a nice chat on the twin vices of gaming and thievery. As for this Count... well, he will not dare to presume his odious obligations any further. You need have no fear of that."

"Yes, Auntie Rose."

"I've got money, 'Legra," Olympia said, gazing down at the petite blonde. The adoration in her expression turned to stony resolve. She clenched one hand into a ham-like fist. "You just me where to find that Count an' I'll stuff the dosh in his gob 'till he chokes on it."

The Duchess shook her head, making her ruby-and-pearl earbobs swing to and fro. "That will do, Miss Newnham. Pray allow me to deal with the Count in my own fashion. I assure you he will take no pleasure in it," she concluded darkly.

"I'm dreadfully sorry that I tried to put the blame on you, Algie," Allegra said. "I'd no idea that Auntie's dinner guest was Lady St. Claire. I had to try for the stone tonight, you see, and I panicked on account of there being a consulting detective at the table. No one could prove you took it, though, so ultimately you'd've been alright."

"Yes, another distraction, although I already had my suspicions by that time," Lina said.

The Duchess inclined her head. "Thank you for your intervention, Lady St. Claire."

"If the Devil's Eye disappears again, Your Grace, you'll probably require the assistance of an exorcist rather than a mundane investigator," Rhiannon remarked.

"Not even Shaitan himself could wrench the ruby from my grasp," the Duchess replied. Her chuckle was cut off by a gasp as the familiar stench of brimstone filled the air of the dining room.

Lina used the sulphur-stinking lucifer she had struck to light one of the Egyptian cigarettes she preferred, and blew out the match with a stream of vaporous smoke.

THE END

<~~~~~ Return to the Library

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THE CUPID’S DART: a Gaslight short story
by Nene Adams ©2005 – all rights reserved

My hand doth not bear witness with my heart,
She saith, because I make no woeful lays,
To paint my living death and endless smart:
And so, for one that felt god Cupid's dart,
She thinks I lead and live too merry days.
---Sir Phillip Sidney, Must Love Lament

t was while the ladies were tucking into a luncheon of jellied chicken and asparagus béarnaise that the butler, Jackson, entered the dining room bearing a calling card on a silver salver. As usual, he affected the sort of mournful mien that a bloodhound might have envied.

“Begging your pardon, milady,” the old man said to Lady Evangeline St. Claire in his most funereal tones, “but the gentleman caller insisted that his business could not wait. I have taken the liberty of showing him into the study.”

Lina wiped her mouth with a napkin and took the card. “Sir Richard Somerset. I do not know the fellow. Do you, my dear?”

“No, his name doesn’t sound familiar to me,” confessed her partner, Rhiannon Moore.

“Well, we shall leave Sir Richard to cool his heels a little while. Jackson, if you will be so good as to fetch the ‘S’ volume of my Compendium?”

“At once, milady.”

Rhiannon took a sip of wine and signaled the footman to remove her plate. “What do you suppose Sir Richard wishes with us?”

“I have no idea,” Lina replied, shrugging, “and it is impossible to speculate. Ah, here is Jackson with my Compendium. Let us see if the Somerset family is represented.”

The Compendium was a multi-volume set of large books into which Lina pasted interesting articles from newspapers and periodicals, as well as hand-written notes on various items and persons and happenings that she deemed worth watching. Lina accepted the leather-bound book from Jackson and turned the pages while the footman finished clearing the table.

“Ah, here he is… Sir Richard Somerset,” Lina said, consulting the Compendium. “Not of the beau monde, my dear, but rather a parvenu, an upstart who made a fortune in trade after his business partner, Jonathon Cox, disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Mr. Cox took his habitual constitutional after dining at his club and was never seen again. Sir Richard – at the time, merely Mr. Somerset – inherited his partner’s share of the business. Quite a wealthy gentleman these days. Married to Minerva Somerset née Dalrymple of the Northumberland, Kent and Staffordshire Dalrymples – an old family with old money and a great many social connections.”

“Do you know Mrs. Somerset?” Rhiannon asked as the footman slid a plate with a portion of Cook’s excellent apricot iced jelly in front of her.

Lina shook her head and slapped the leather covers of the book closed. She declined a serving of jelly with a wave of her hand. Jackson, who had been discreetly hovering nearby, took the Compendium out of her lap and tottered out of the dining room.

“No, I have not had that pleasure,” Lina said, answering Rhiannon’s question, “although I believe her mother and mine are contemporaries and shared a London season when they were both girls.”

Jackson returned bearing the coffee service. Although she preferred tea, Rhiannon allowed the butler to pour her a tiny cup of the strong brew, which she adulterated with plenty of sugar and cream. Lina preferred her coffee in its natural state. After taking a sip, she declaimed theatrically, from Alexander Pope’s The Rape of the Lock:

“For lo! the board with cups and spoons is crown'd,
The berries crackle, and the mill turns round;
On shining altars of Japan they raise
The silver lamp; the fiery spirits blaze:
From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide,
While China's earth receives the smoking tide:
At once they gratify their scent and taste,
And frequent cups prolong the rich repast.”

Rhiannon chuckled and continued quoting from the poem:

”Coffee, (which makes the politician wise,
And see through all things with his half-shut eyes)
Sent up in vapours to the Baron's brain
New stratagems, the radiant lock to gain.”

“Well, Sir Richard is not a baron,” Lina said, draining her cup, “but a baronet, and as he is not a peer of the realm but a member of the gentry, his title cannot be inherited. Nevertheless, he must have urgent business here to attempt an interruption of our luncheon. Are you finished, my dear? Then let us repair to the study and satisfy our curiosity.”

Lina rose from the table and spent a few moment straightening the skirts of her leaf-green Liberty’s silk dress, made in the loose aesthetic style that she preferred. The color made her emerald eyes seem even darker. Once Rhiannon joined her, the two women went to the study to meet Sir Richard Somerset.

The gentleman, though beyond the first flush of youth, had aged very gracefully. He was still handsome as the Devil, with a charming smile and a smoldering look of appreciation in his dark eyes that spoke eloquently of past successes with the ladies. He first apologized for being so bold as to forgo convention and introduce himself. The pleasantries and requisite chit-chat dispensed with, he directed the conversation straight to business.

“Lady St. Claire,” Sir Richard said, hooking a thumb in the pocket of his gorgeous peacock-blue waistcoat, “I have heard from friends that you sometimes act in the capacity of a confidential inquiry agent.”

“That is correct,” Lina answered. “How may I assist you?” She sat on the settee, drawing Rhiannon down to sit beside her, while Sir Richard sat in the chair opposite.

“The matter is a delicate one,” Sir Richard said. “My son, Bertram, had gotten himself entangled with an actress, Charlotte Palmer. The affair is over; I’ve seen to that. However, Miss Palmer is armed with certain indiscreet letters written by Bertram, in which the boy foolishly promised to wed her. I want those letters.”

“And how much are you willing to pay Miss Palmer to get them?” Lina asked bluntly. He jerked in surprise, and she continued, “In my experience, Sir Richard, extortionists – even of the genteel variety – require their monetary demands to be met before they willingly surrender their advantages.”

Sir Richard smoothed his well-trimmed mustache. “It galls me to give that harpy a single shilling,” he said, shrugging broad shoulders. “I had hoped that you might… one hears tales, you know, at dinner parties and the like.”

“Oh?” Lina arched a dark brow. “Pray tell, what secrets has that barking dog, rumor, disclosed regarding my activities and proclivities?”

“That you occasionally utilize, shall we say, less-than-legal procedures should the case require taking measures beyond those deemed lawful by the police.” Sir Richard took a heavy silver case out of his jacket pocket, removed a cheroot and asked silent permission, which was given with a nod. Taking a paper spill from the vase on the mantelpiece, he leaned down to the fire, and then used the flaming spill to light his cheroot.

Rhiannon got up to pull back the heavy velvet curtains and open a window against the strong reek of smoke, which was a well-nigh suffocating mundungus.

“I use whatever methods are necessary in order to bring the case to a successful resolution, if such a thing is within the realm of possibility,” Lina said, her expression carefully neutral. “You ought to know that I am a private citizen, Sir Richard, not a police detective, and furthermore, the authorities frown upon extra-legal procedures.”

“Very well, let me be frank, milady. I wish to hire you to extract those letters from Charlotte Palmer’s possession by any means whatsoever, legal or illegal.” Sir Richard blew out a thick cloud of smoke and thrust the cheroot into the corner of his mouth. “She is asking for five thousand pounds – quite impossible, as you may imagine, and I reckon hiring you will be a cheaper and more effective means of stilling the woman’s ambition. Bertram is engaged to a perfectly respectable young heiress, and I don’t want the girl upset.”

Lina flushed. Rising to her feet, she turned a blazing emerald glare upon the man. “I do not approve of blackmail, sir. Less still do I approve of bullying males who, having tasted of the fruits offered by a woman, flinch upon receiving the bill.”

“My son was generous enough with the Palmer woman,” Sir Richard said. “Five thousand pounds is too much to pay for a reputation already tarnished by other lovers before she got her claws into Bertram. However, out of deference to your lady-like sensibilities, I am willing to pay five hundred pounds for the letters, not a penny more. That is, I feel, a more than adequate recompense for an actress who has likely found another victim.”

“And if she refuses?” Lina asked, twitching with impatience and the aftermath of ire.

Again, Sir Richard shrugged. “Then I shall know what to do,” he said, sneering. “I am not a man who can be easily crossed, Lady St. Claire. Charlotte Palmer will discover this fact to her sorrow if she attempts to take matters further than I am willing to indulge. I’m not one of your soft-hearted, deep pocketed, weak-blooded young dandies who haven’t an ounce of common sense. I came to my fortune the hard way, and I’m a harder man for it.”

Lina nodded, looking grim. “I shall certainly bear that in mind. And you ought to know, Sir Richard, that I am hardly soft-hearted or weak-blooded. Should anything untoward happen to Charlotte Palmer – I am well aware that acid thrown into the woman’s face is considered by some to be justice for her crime - I shall know who is to blame and act accordingly. Am I rightly understood?”

“You are, madam. I like the way you state yourself and your intentions without coyness or falsity. Plain dealing is the way I do business.” Sir Richard took a last puff and tossed the stub of his cheroot into the fire. “Act as my representative in this matter and I’m certain that Charlotte Palmer need not fear retribution of any kind.” He checked his pocket watch. “I must fly, for I’ve an urgent appointment at my club. Contact me at any time, but particularly when you have possession of the letters.”

Jackson was summoned to show Sir Richard Somerset out of the house.

When the man had gone, Lina fixed herself a whisky-and-soda. “Well, that was an unpleasant interview with an unpleasant fellow,” she said.

“Poor Charlotte Palmer,” Rhiannon murmured. “She’s an actress, he said.”

“Yes, although her name is unknown to me. Miss Palmer is therefore not one of the stage’s foremost divas. I must send a note of inquiry to a theatrical agent of my acquaintance; Sidney will be able to tell us the latest gossip regarding our erstwhile blackmailer.” Lina took a large sip of whisky and grimaced. “One would think that the son of a businessman such as Sir Richard would have had more sense than to write incriminating billet doux to a mistress.”

“Do you think that she’d be so bold as to try and break up Mr. Somerset’s engagement to his respectable heiress?”

“No, but Miss Palmer is most certainly threatening a breach of promise civil suit, and I am certain that Sir Richard wishes to avoid adverse publicity.” Lina finished her drink and put the empty cut-crystal glass on a table. “It is early days yet, my dear. Let us find out what we can regarding Charlotte Palmer before we confront the lady in her lair.”

That was not to be. The same morning that Lina received a letter from the theatrical agent Sidney Graves in answer to her query, she also received an urgent summons asking her to come at once to Sir Richard Somerset’s home in South Kensington. She and Rhiannon donned jackets and hats and gloves, and eschewing breakfast – much to Cook’s outrage – they set out at once via Lina’s private carriage for Somerset House.

The place was magnificent, a newly-built brick edifice crafted to seem as if it had simply sprung full-grown from the earth, as the goddess Athena from the brow of Zeus. The surrounding gardens were no less marvelous. As their carriage rolled up the crushed stone drive to the front of the house, Lina noted the presences of police constables prowling around the grounds in an attempt to appear busy.

“A Scotland Yard inspector must be… ah, my dear, there he is!” Lina nodded at the paunchy figure of Inspector Harold Valentine standing on the front steps. The man was flanked by a pair of stone lions. Above the doorway was inscribed the Latin phrase audaces fortuna iuvat – Fortune favors the bold. It was obviously the Somerset motto and, as far as Lina was concerned, suited the man she had met.

“Milady, what brings you to Kensington so early on a Sunday morn?” Valentine asked, automatically moving to help Lina and Rhiannon out of the carriage.

“I received a message to attend an emergency meeting here,” Lina replied.

“I see.” Valentine’s storm-gray eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Would you care to tell me how you’ve involved in the matter?”

“Until I know what the matter is…” Lina’s voice trailed off suggestively.

Valentine sighed and shifted his feet. “Sir Richard Somerset has been murdered,” he said. “Shot with an arrow through the heart.”

Although Lina was taken aback, she schooled her expression to show nothing of her shock. “Has he indeed? Then I suppose it was his son, Bertram, who sent me the note urging me to come to Somerset House post haste.”

“I couldn’t say, milady,” Valentine replied.

Before the Scotland Yard inspector could speak further, a tall, thin young man burst out of the door and descended upon Lina. The newcomer’s manner was suggestive of a lost lamb who has, after enduring many horrors in the night, at last found his shepherd.

“Lady St. Claire!” he babbled, wringing Lina’s gloved hand. His gooseberry-pale eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. “I am ever so glad that you’ve come! We’re all at sixes and sevenses, you know, on account of what’s happened to Father. Please, you must tell these awful policemen that Charlotte isn’t responsible. She couldn’t be! The most delightful, gentle creature… wouldn’t hurt a fly…”

Lina exerted considerable strength to wrench her hand out of the young man’s grip. “Might you be Mr. Bertram Somerset?”

“Yes, yes!” he nodded. “Do come in! This is some dreadful mistake, I know it…”

“In a moment, Mr. Somerset. Kindly permit me to have a few words with Inspector Valentine first, then Miss Moore and myself will be happy to join you in the house.”

“Oh, very well! But Charlotte is most upset and so is Mother and Jenny, and the servants are in an uproar, and I’ve no idea what’s to be done!”

Lina gazed at him and felt almost sorry for Bertram Somerset, who was a quivering bundle of nerves that might suffer a collapse at any time. She patted him on the shoulder, steered him towards the open doorway and said, not unkindly, “Mr. Somerset, go inside and have a cup of tea, or… yes, perhaps a brandy might be more efficacious. My companion and I will join you shortly.”

“Will you? Thank you, Lady St. Claire. Thank you.” Somerset stumbled back into the house.

Valentine quirked an eyebrow at the retreating young man’s back. “A definite rabbit, milady, as opposed to the wolf that was his father.”

“Indeed. So what has happened here?”

“Minerva Somerset is the chair-mistress of the Alborium Toxophily Society; that’s a group of amateur archers in her social circle who meet weekly for practice shooting,” Valentine said. “The Alborium Society recently scored a victory over rival toxophilists, the Viburnums, headed by Mrs. Somerset’s sister, Lady Florence DeBurgh.”

“Married to Lord Inglemarch,” Lina supplied. “Go on, Harry.”

“At any rate,” Valentine continued, “last evening, Mrs. Somerset hosted a victory dinner for the Alborium members. After dinner, the attendants were gathered in the drawing room for coffee. At some point in the evening, after midnight and before one o’clock in the morning, Sir Richard Somerset disappeared. His body was discovered by his wife.”

“When was the discovery made?”

“Some time after midnight, according to Mrs. Somerset,” Valentine said. He peered at Rhiannon. “And how are you faring, Miss Moore?”

“Quite well, Inspector Valentine,” Rhiannon answered, giving him a smile. She liked the inspector, and he always treated her with a grave and sincere sort of courtesy.

“We had better go and speak to Mrs. Somerset,” Lina said, taking Rhiannon’s arm. “If you will excuse us, Harry.”

“So long as you don’t interfere in an official investigation, milady,” he replied, inclining his head.

Lina snorted and escorted Rhiannon into the house.

Minerva Somerset was a plump and pretty matron of indeterminate age. Her slightly graying hair was dressed in little ringlets; her fingers flashed with jewels. She regarded Lina with a somewhat jaundiced expression. “I cannot imagine what Richard was about, asking you to interfere in my darling Bertram’s affairs.”

“Do you refer to Mr. Somerset’s affair with the actress Charlotte Palmer?” Lina asked. “It was my understanding that Miss Palmer was blackmailing your husband using indiscreet letters sent to her by your son in which he recklessly promised marriage.”

Minerva waved a hand through the air, gemstones striking sparks in the early morning light. “The merest trifle, the indiscretion of a naïve, unworldly young man.”

“The breach of promise suit,” Lina prompted.

“An annoyance, to be sure, but not worth murder.”

“Mrs. Somerset, under what circumstances did you discover your husband’s body?” Rhiannon asked, knowing that Lina would want to know the answer to the question. She had come prepared to take notes, and jotted down everything said in a little mother-of-pearl notebook that she kept in her pocket for the purpose.

“It was around one o’clock in the morning. I had gone to the dining room to speak with our butler, Truemay, as I had found his after-dinner coffee to be an inadequate offering and wished to call him to account at once, while the matter was still fresh in my mind. As I spoke to Truemay, I glanced outside and saw my husband’s body in the garden, at the foot of the statue of Eros. It was obvious from the body’s position that Richard was beyond the aid of mortal man, therefore I instructed Truemay to send for the police without delay.”

Minerva turned in her seat at a noise from the doorway of the parlor, where she had deigned to meet with Lina and Rhiannon. “Ah, dear Bertram, do join us… although that creature with you may remain in the servant’s hall, if she must remain at all.”

Bertram came into the parlor, followed by a woman who sported hennaed hair and a daring décolleté. “Mother, you know that Charlotte isn’t a servant…”

“Well, she certainly doesn’t belong here!” Minerva said tartly. “Let her stay with those of her own class. How dare a female of low birth and dubious occupation pollute the atmosphere of the upper halls!”

Charlotte Palmer turned to go and halted in her tracks when Lina said, “Miss Palmer, may I have a word with you?”

“I am hardly in a position to object,” Charlotte murmured.

“I say, Charlie, don’t let anyone bully you!” Bertram cried.

“It’s all right, Bertie.”

“Oh, Lord, Bertram, get away from that woman!” Minerva squirmed on the couch and cast a supplicating look at a willowy, horse-faced girl in pink satin who sat in a chair opposite. “Jenny, can you not take your fiancée in hand?”

Jenny – Lady Jane Fanshaw, daughter of the Earl of Moncrieve – gave Somerset a withering glance and said to Minerva, “Far be it from me to prevent Bertie from making a ass of himself over a common tart.” She sniffed and elevated her nose in clear dismissal while Bertram Somerset’s bulging gaze traveled from his mother to his fiancée and back to his former lover Charlotte in a clear agony of indecisiveness.

“Pray excuse us, Mrs. Somerset. Thank you for your time.” Breaking the dead-lock, Lina rose to her feet and urged Charlotte out of the parlor and down the corridor. Rhiannon remained at her partner’s side, moving in a rustle of ivory taffeta skirts. As they walked, Lina introduced herself and Rhiannon to Charlotte Palmer.

“Now, Miss Palmer, perhaps you’d care to explain your relationship with Sir Richard and Bertram Somerset. I have been told that the police believe you may be involved in Sir Richard’s death. Tell me everything and I shall attempt to help you,” Lina said, staring down at Charlotte. The actress’ brave front dissolved without further prompting.

“Oh, Lady St. Claire! What am I to do? The police think I’m responsible for killing Richard but it isn’t true! I hated him but I would never have done him harm,” Charlotte said, her voice cracking. Lina drew the woman into a small room – a linen closet – and Rhiannon shut the door behind them after taking a candle from a hall table and lighting it with a lucifer. The air inside the closet was redolent with lavender and Charlotte Palmer’s desperation.

“Why five thousand pounds? Did you really suppose a self-made man, a noveau riche like Sir Richard, would pay a king’s ransom to hush up his son’s indiscretion?” Rhiannon asked, moved to pity by the actress’ tear-stained countenance.

“Not Bertram’s but Richard’s,” Charlotte sniffled, accepting the handkerchief that Rhiannon offered. “Before I met dear sweet Bertie, I was involved with Sir Richard himself. He was the one who introduced me to his son. It is my belief that he hoped a love affair would improve Bertie’s confidence. Believe me, I do love Bertie. He’s kind and gentle, a truly beautiful soul. He had no idea, of course, that Sir Richard was my former protector, and I never told him. I had letters from Bertie, true, but as far as I was concerned, the more valuable billet doux were from Richard himself.”

“And when you learned of Bertram’s engagement with Lady Jane Fanshaw…?”

“I lost my temper. The arrangement is not of Bertie’s choosing. Richard is selling Bertie off like a stallion at Tattersall’s, trading the heir to his fortune for the social respectability and connections that the daughter of an Earl can bring. I thought that if I made an impossible demand of Richard, he might at least be willing to negotiate.” Charlotte mopped her face with the handkerchief. “All I wanted was a little pension and a promise from Richard not to interfere if Bertie continued to see me after his marriage.”

“Adultery is…” Lina began, and was interrupted by Charlotte, who tossed her head and said with a gleam of defiance in her hazel eyes, “Expected of a wealthy gentleman, and you won’t hear too many wives complain so long as their husbands are discreet.”

“How did you come here to the house?” Lina asked, shifting the topic of the conversation to matters of less troublesome morality.

Charlotte’s shoulders slumped. “Bertie sent me a note telling me that his mother had forbidden him from seeing me anymore. I needed to see him, and Richard, too. Mrs. Somerset is somewhat manic on the subject of infidelity, which is why I thought Richard might give me what I wanted rather than risk exposure. He holds the purse strings, but Mrs. Somerset’s connections among the beau monde are very important to him and his business. When Richard and I were together, he was quite frantic lest someone see us and inform his wife. I had the feeling that she had made it plain, in the early days of their marriage, that infidelity would not be tolerated. Mrs. Somerset is a woman used to having her own way.

“At any rate, I wanted to try to make Richard see reason. He’s the sort of man who doesn’t take one seriously unless one is holding an advantage, which those damnable letters gave me. I also wanted an opportunity to speak to Bertie. He doesn’t understand that he’s his own man. He doesn’t need Mama or Papa to make decisions for him.”

Lina rubbed her chin. “Are you familiar with the use of bow and arrow?”

“My father was a gamekeeper as well as a poacher,” Charlotte said with a bitter laugh, “which is how my family came to live in London after he was let go from Lord Valery’s estate for poaching his Lordship’s deer. I am no expert but I suppose that I could fit arrow to bow well enough to be accurate at short range. There’s no point in hiding my past, milady; the police will find out soon enough, if they don’t know already.”

“And they will consider you a chief suspect?” Lina asked.

“Naturally. I am a crow among swans, milady. The rest of the guests were titled and wealthy. I am a woman of uncertain means and dubious reputation. Even if I should be proved innocent in the end, an arrest will be enough to ruin my career and my livelihood.”

“Did you ever threaten Sir Richard?”

“I was angry. I may have said something… I don’t know.”

Rhiannon stifled a sneeze. The scent of lavender in the small room was almost overwhelming. “What happened last evening, Miss Palmer?”

“When the play was over – I have a small role in a West End production of The Rose of Amiens - I received a message from Richard. It was a nasty, insulting note filled with threats,” Charlotte said. “He was being quite horrid; Richard had an ugly side that roused when he was thwarted. Some of the things he wrote made me very angry, including the news that he had hired a detective whose sole purpose was to make my life a misery unless I entirely gave up any expectations I may have had.

“I came to Somerset House to confront him. Richard was a dark man with dark appetites and I feared his temper. Nevertheless, I hoped that here, in his own home – and surrounded by guests, as I found out – he would not make a scene. Alas, I never had the chance to see him. By the time I arrived in a hired cab, it was around midnight and Richard was nowhere to be found. Bertie was terrified that his mother or his fiancée might take umbrage at my presence, so he bade me remain hidden in the library. That was before Mrs. Somerset discovered Richard’s body and the police were fetched.”

“Are there any witnesses to your sojourn in the library?”

“No.”

Rhiannon suddenly remembered something that Minerva Somerset had said. She tugged Lina’s sleeve to gain her partner’s attention, and asked Charlotte, “Did you see Mrs. Somerset when you arrived?”

“I don’t…” Charlotte hesitated. “No, I don’t recall seeing Mrs. Somerset but the house was full of people and Bertie hurried me straight into the library.”

“Did you see the dining room?” Rhiannon asked, earning an odd glance from both Lina and Charlotte.

“Yes, Bertie took me through the dining room as it was empty of all save servants.”

“And were you able to see quite well in the room? The gas jets were lit and so on?”

Charlotte’s confusion was clear but she replied, “Yes. The illumination was quite bright, as servants were still cleaning the room.”

Understanding bloomed on Lina’s face. She gave Rhiannon a proud grin and said to Charlotte, “Miss Palmer, I believe that you have nothing to fear from the police.”

The door opened and Inspector Harry Valentine stood there, scowling. “I beg to differ, milady,” he said. “Miss Palmer, if you’ll come with me to Scotland Yard, I have some questions to ask of you.”

“Harry, do not arrest Miss Palmer, I beg you,” Lina said. “It would be a mistake.”

“Is that so, milady?” Valentine crossed his arms and regarded the tall, dark-haired woman with speculation in his storm-gray eyes. “I’m listening.”

Lina said, “What sort of arrow was used to kill Sir Richard? It is my understanding that each toxophilist’s arrow is unique in regards to color and fletching, in order to distinguish it from that of another archer.”

“The arrow used belonged to the Honorable William Yates, the younger son of the Duke of Godolphin,” Valentine replied, “but we’ve already established that young William couldn’t have killed Sir Richard, as he was caught by the butler in flagrante delicto with Mrs. Somerset’s maid. According to Truemay, Yates was drunk as a boiled owl and incapable of either rising to his feet or rising to the occasion.” The inspector chuckled. “Everyone’s bows and quivers were stacked in the mud room. It would have been easy for the killer to slip through the mud room, pick up a weapon, and nip straight out to the garden.”

“Do you recall Mrs. Somerset’s statement?” Rhiannon asked. “About finding her husband’s body in the garden.”

“She said that she was in the dining room. She looked out of the window and saw Sir Richard’s body. What of it? Seems straightforward to me,” Valentine said.

“At one o’clock in the morning, Harry,” Lina said insistently.

Valentine frowned, blonde brows drawing together over the bridge of his nose. “Milady, are you trying to make a point?”

“The dining room was well lit,” Rhiannon said. “The garden was not. The night was dark. Under those circumstances, it would be virtually impossible to see anyone or anything in the garden from the house. The only thing one would see in looking out of the window would be a reflection of one’s self in the glass panes.”

Valentine gaped at her a moment, then his mouth settled into a grim line. “Mrs. Somerset lied about that,” he said. “I wonder what other tales she may have told?” He spun about on his heel and stomped away in the direction of the parlor, presumably to further interrogate the dead man’s wife.

Charlotte’s eyes went wide in amazement. “Mrs. Somerset killed Richard?”

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Lina said with a shrug. “It seems likely. She must have found out that Sir Richard had an affair with you, Miss Palmer. A wife always knows, although she may pretend to ignorance for the sake of domestic tranquility. Seeing you at the house must have confirmed her worst suspicions. Killing her husband was the impulsive act of a jealous woman driven to violence by Sir Richard’s infidelity. It would have been easy for her to lure Sir Richard to the garden under some pretext, slipping out through the mud room and taking a handy weapon with her. As chair-mistress of the toxophily society, Mrs. Somerset must be a decent shot with bow and arrow. She might have gotten away with the crime, too, had it not been for that lie about seeing her husband’s body from the house.”

“Murder will out,” Rhiannon said.

“Charlie!” Bertram Somerset appeared, his gooseberry-pale gaze fastened hungrily on Charlotte’s face. “Darling! Are you all right?”

“Yes, Bertie,” Charlotte replied, moving easily into the scrawny man’s embrace. “I am very well, indeed.” She guided him down the corridor, talking softly while Somerset made contented noises and occasional wordless exclamations.

Rhiannon looked at Lina. “The course of true love never did run smooth,” she quoted.

“As always, the Bard of Avon is apt in his observations of human nature. Bertie has lost a Papa and a Mama – and presumably, a fiancée as well, as I do not think he will marry Lady Jane now – but he has gained an affectionate and loving companion, as well as his freedom and the fortune necessary to ease his passage through life. In that, we may suppose Mr. Bertram Somerset to be the most fortunate of men.” Lina took Rhiannon into her arms, blew out the candle and kicked the door shut.

In the gloom, smothered by the smells of lavender, candle wax and Lina’s own delicious personal scent, Rhiannon murmured, “And I am the most fortunate of women, for I have you, love.” Her head was spinning. She clung to Lina’s warm, firm body and buried her face in the bosom of the woman’s dress, the slippery silk cooling her flushed cheeks.

“My heart, mind, body and soul are yours,” Lina confirmed, tightening her arms around Rhiannon, hands splayed on her back, cupping her shoulder bones.

Their lips met in a kiss that was, at first, sweet rather than seductive. After a moment, Rhiannon tilted her head at an angle and deepened the kiss, sliding a hand into Lina’s hair to hold the other woman still while she suckled on the hot wet velvety tongue that invaded her mouth. She was hungry for her lover’s taste, well-nigh starved for it. Rhiannon savored the silent moans bubbling up from Lina’s throat as she made love to that perfect mouth.

Both women were so lost in the kiss that they failed to notice the door opening and revealing a maid’s white face before it slammed closed.

Lina broke away, panting harshly. She controlled herself until she was breathing normally, but her grip on Rhiannon’s biceps did not slacken one wit. “Shall I tell our carriage driver to take the scenic route home, my dear?” she asked.

Words caught on Rhiannon’s tongue, ensnared by desire. She nodded instead and found herself being tugged out of the closet, down the corridor, and out the door of Somerset House without further ado, in such haste that her feet scarcely touched the ground.

Lina pushed her into the waiting carriage and clambered inside, settling her body atop Rhiannon and pressing her down into the plush seats. The wheels crunched on the gravel drive as Henry set the horses in motion. Lina purred, “Where were we?”

Rhiannon proved more than happy to show her.

THE END

<~~~~~Return to the Library

Art in the Blood - a Gaslight short story
by Nene Adams ©2005 - All rights reserved

“Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?” Lady Evangeline St. Claire muttered the Shakespeare quotation, while surveying the corpse weltering in its gore. Beside and slightly behind her, Rhiannon Moore – her partner in the private detective enterprise, as well as in life – pressed a handkerchief to her mouth, and stared at the body in the centre of the wide-spread scarlet pool. A fly buzzed in through the open window and settled on the dead man’s eyelid, which had frozen open to show a crescent slit of white.

“That’s not all blood,” said Inspector Harry Valentine, hooking his thumbs in the pockets of his waistcoat, and rocking back and forth on his heels as was his habit. The Scotland Yard inspector had a unlit cigar jammed in the corner of his mouth. “Alfred de Morgan is an artist… but perhaps I ought to let his friend, Mr. Watts, give you the particulars.” He indicated a gentleman standing nearby, his back to the gory scene.

Solomon Watts proved to be a very neat and tidy figure of a man; he was spotless, perfectly groomed from his pomaded head down to his masterfully shined shoes. “Alfred and I were boys together in school,” he said, looking down his nose at Lina – a difficult feat since she was unusually tall for a woman – and sniffing loudly. It was clear from his expression that he disapproved of her, a female inquiry agent whose conduct was far outside the bounds of polite Society… even if she was the daughter of a Duchess.

He glanced at Valentine, received a bare-toothed grin of encouragement, and went on with obvious misgivings, “At any rate, Alfred and I were rivals for the affections of a young lady, the Honourable Miss Caroline Leighton. Last week, I learned that Alfred was the lucky chap who won the fair lady, and we had a falling out. He’s one of my oldest friends, after some consideration, I felt that I should extend the olive branch, hence my visit to his studio.”

“What happened?” Rhiannon asked, carefully not eyeing the body, but still unable to block it out entirely from her peripheral vision.

In death, Alfred de Morgan was unlovely, lying on his face with his limbs a-sprawl in the pool blood and vermilion paint that surrounded him. The stain was contained to the immediate area, and had not spread beyond. There was a single small splash of blood – a few elongated droplets – on the wall near the window, where the artist had set up his easel. She caught Lina’s gaze and nodded towards the splatter, gratified at her partner’s answering nod.

“The poor fellow!” Watts grimaced. “In his haste to greet me, Alfred dropped a pot of paint on the floor, then he slipped and struck his head on the corner of the work table. I suppose the blow killed him instantly. A most unfortunate incident, most grievous…. had I not been eager to take his hand, had I been able to break his fall, Alfred might still be alive.”

“Yes, if you were close enough,” Lina ventured, and Watts interrupted. “Our fingertips actually touched,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose and turning pale. “I blame myself. I might have saved my dearest friend! This guilt will haunt me forever. I do not know what I will tell Miss Leighton. She will be utterly desolate.”

“I see.” Lina turned to Inspector Valentine. “How were the police alerted?”

“The maid,” Valentine said, taking the cigar out of his mouth and inspecting the chewed end. “She was upstairs and heard a thud. She came straight down, and found de Morgan as you see him, and Watts in the room as well.”

“Harry, Alfred de Morgan was murdered, and before you stands the murderer!” Lina said, taking hold of Watt’s upper arm. The man’s convulsive jerk was arrested by her strong grip. Rhiannon took a step backwards, realized she was almost treading in the pool of drying blood and paint, and found herself standing near Inspector Valentine.

“Care to explain?” Valentine asked Lina with a hint of sarcasm. He took a pair of Darby handcuffs out of his pocket and held them loosely while watching Watts, who pulled his arm out of Lina’s grasp.

“Woman, are you deranged?” Watts asked Lina angrily, smoothing his rumpled jacket sleeve, then turning to Valentine. “You should keep better control of your… of Lady St. Claire. I am not in the mood for jests, nor do I appreciate being mauled.”

Lina’s expression might have been carved from stone. “Did you believe that by eliminating Mr. de Morgan, you might have a better chance at winning the fair lady?”

“I will not stand here and be insulted.”

“On the contrary,” Lina said, her voice cold and silky. Rhiannon recognized that tone, and felt a frisson of sympathetic apprehension shiver down her spin. When her partner spoke so softly, so smoothly, it boded very ill, indeed. “Are you certain that you do not wish to make a confession at once, and save Scotland Yard and the Crown a good deal of trouble?”

Watts sneered. The glance he threw Valentine’s way was full of scorn. “Are you going to allow this female to usurp your duty? What sort of man are you?”

A flush crept across Valentine’s cheeks, but he did not say a word. Lina went on, “You came to the studio to see your ‘old friend,’ and I suspect you did not intend to kill him. That decision was made later, at the spur of the moment. Perhaps you argued with Mr. de Morgan regarding Miss Leighton. You snatched up a weapon and struck! Hearing the maid coming downstairs, you thought quickly, and poured red paint around the body to support your tale of accidental death.”

“Madness! Hysterical madness!” Watts was sweating. Fascinated, Rhiannon watched a glistening bead slide down his temple, and slant towards the corner of his mouth. “Why are you subjecting me to this travesty?” he asked Valentine.

“I suggest you pay attention to the lady,” was the inspector’s laconic reply.

“Harry, you ought to have some of your men comb through the garden, particularly in the area beneath the open window. They will be searching for a candlestick, a small bronze… something with blood on it. I doubt Mr. Watts had time enough to cleanse his weapon of the evidence of his crime.”

Valentine moved to the window, while watching Watts out of the corner of his eye. “Oi! You lot! Come here!”

A muscle beneath Watts’ eye began to twitch. Lina gave him a predatory smile. The hair on the back of Rhiannon’s neck prickled. Tension thickened in the room. The fly buzzed into the air and butted against the window pane, its sound a harsh rattle in the otherwise quiet room. Rhiannon blinked. Suddenly, Watts moved.

He started for the door, which put him between Lina and Valentine. The inspector made an aborted lunge, brought up short by Rhiannon, who darted forward and thrust out a foot to trip Watts. The man fell headlong, skidded on the floor, struck the wainscoting, and lay in a crumpled heap, semi-conscious and groaning. Rhiannon, meanwhile, clung to Lina’s hastily offered arm until she regained her balance.

The fly found the open window and escaped to freedom.

Watts did not. In a few moments, he was handcuffed and in the custody of a pair of burly constables. Rather than immediately transport his prisoner to the Metropolitan Police headquarters on the Victoria Embankment, he lingered and raised his brows at Lina, clearly waiting for an explanation.

In response to his mute inquiry, Lina settled Rhiannon on her feet, wound an arm around her waist, and said, “Had events transpired in the manner in which Mr. Watts described – had he indeed been close enough to the unfortunate de Morgan to touch him - then he should have red paint splashed about his person. Most especially his shoes, which you will note show no trace of anything other than the boot boy’s polish.”

Rhiannon’s gaze was drawn to Watts’ shoes, the leather glossy and without a speck of dust or paint to mar the shiny surface.

“Furthermore, I believe when the police surgeon removes the body, you will find that the area directly beneath it is clean, therefore proving that the paint was spilled after de Morgan’s demise.” Lina took a breath, and transfixed Watts with a triumphant glare. “The fact that he chose a weapon of convenience speaks to the ill-considered nature of the crime. Had he intended harm to his former friend, Mr. Watts would have brought something more appropriate to the scene, such as a revolver. As to his haste… you told me, Harry, that the maid was summoned by a thud, which must have been caused by de Morgan’s collapse after Watts inflicted the fatal head wound. The murderer had no time for detailed concealment. He threw his weapon out of the open window, tipped the paint pot, and pretended horror.”

Watts said nothing, but the hatred in his glittering gaze told its own tale.

A young woman, fashionably and expensively dressed, came to the door. She was pretty in a chocolate box fashion, all blonde and pale except for twin spots of hectic colour on her cheeks. “Solomon? What’s happened? They told me that Alfred…”

The silence in the room was broken by a brassy buzzing as a fly, disturbed by a constable who had found a bloodied candlestick in the rose bushes outside and raised a shout, flew in through the open window. The sound quieted when the insect settled on the sticky blood surrounding the body, and began to feed. A heartbeat later, startled by Miss Leighton’s screams of anguish and horrified disbelief, the fly departed through the window once more.

It did not return when the silence was restored after Miss Leighton swooned.

THE END

The Miraculous Fast - A Gaslight Short Story
by Nene Adams ©2005 - all rights reserved
(Formerly available only to Supporters of the Library)

“The whole of our social structure is based on the assumption that normally constituted men and women will not cheat or lie without sufficient motive.” --- Frank Podmore, 1897

~~~ooo0ooo~~~

The girl was unmistakably dead.

Far from peaceful repose, her body lay amongst the crumpled sheets on the iron-framed bed in an awkward sprawl; her printed Japanese silk wrapper gaped open, showing legs bared shockingly to the thigh, as well as most of her torso. This was bad enough, but it was the body’s horrific condition that made Rhiannon Moore gasp for breath and gag.

Lady Evangeline St. Claire, the only female consulting detective in London – and possibly all of England as well – had to hold a hand against her lips as a wave of acrid bile rose in the back of her throat and stung her tongue. “How long?” she asked, her voice echoing hollowly in the otherwise empty room.

“Thirty days,” answered Inspector Harold Valentine of Scotland Yard. His blonde moustache bristled. “Thirty bloody days without food or water, and her only a child, by God!”

Rhiannon gagged again and turned away.

Lina felt a hot flush of anger on her cheeks. “Unconscionable!” Her gloved hand clenched into a fist. “Where are the parents? Why was nothing done?”

Valentine blew out a sigh. “Miss Mary Louise Philpott, fifteen years of age, only daughter of Edgar and Elizabeth Philpott of No. 15 Langwell Road, Cheapside. They’ve three sons, all older than Mary; the father was in charge of the bookkeeping at a local silk importers. A good Catholic family by all accounts; so good, in fact, that Miss Mary was considered to have anorexia mirabilis, or so I’m told by those who ought to know.”

Lina’s brows struggled to rise and pucker into a frown at the same time. “A fasting girl, eh? One of those so-called ‘miraculous maids’ who never eat or drink and survive – nay, thrive in many cases – due to the intervention of God. I believe such girls were once considered the very model of female holiness, however these days, I suspect that sleight-of-hand and an accomplice are the true workers of such ‘miracles.’”

“Be that as it may,” Valentine said, “it seems that Mr. and Mrs. Philpott – bein’ devout folks – have been exhibiting their miracle daughter since she was ten, and they say Miss Mary hasn’t eaten a bite or drunk a swallow of anything in all that time.”

“Nonsense.”

“You’ll get no argument from me on that score.” Valentine drummed his fingers on the paunch that strained the buttons of his woollen waistcoat.

Lina gave Rhiannon a pat on the shoulder, not surprised to find the smaller woman’s muscles were taut with tension. The corpse was a truly horrible sight, the greyish skin stretched too-tight over the delicate spars of the girl’s bones. Brittle-looking blonde hair covered the upper part of the face, but the mouth sagged open in a silent scream. There was no doubt in Lina’s mind that Mary Philpott had died of starvation and thirst. Even more heart-wrenching were the teeth marks on the bed frame, as if she had gnawed the unyielding enamelled iron bars in her agonies.

“Do go on, Harry,” Lina urged him.

“There were a great many pilgrims who went to see the fasting maid of Langwell Road, and many presents of money and such-like were given to Mr. and Mrs. Philpott,” Valentine said. “Mary became quite famous, although their parish priest refused to believe in the miracle. At any rate, the girl became known to Mrs. Uxbridge.”

It was Lina’s turn to sigh. “The notorious Mrs. Harrison Gilbert Uxbridge. I suppose that complication was inevitable, given the circumstances of the case.”

“Who’s Mrs. Uxbridge?” Rhiannon asked, still facing away from the bed and its grisly contents.

“Mrs. Uxbridge is an extremely wealthy widow who suffers from religious mania,” Lina said, taking off her suede gloves. “She collects the finger-bones of saints and the withered hearts of martyrs, among other things. Mrs. Uxbridge is rumoured to own one of the world’s holiest relics – the Lance of Longinus, which pierced the side of Christ when He was crucified. Two years ago, she imported a genuine anchorite from a cave in Italy, and installed the man and his hair shirts into an artificial grotto on the grounds of her country house in Surrey. She also supports a stigmatic and two personal priests, and is on dining terms with the Vatican.”

Lina turned to Valentine. “I suppose Mrs. Uxbridge wished to add Mary Philpott to her collection.”

“You suppose correctly,” Valentine answered. The inspector swept a hand through the air, indicating the room. It was large and airy; the ceiling was a full twenty-five feet high, fitted with a massive skylight that let the sun’s rays pour inside the space virtually all day, as the room faced south. The walls were plainly whitewashed and unadorned with plaster furbelows; the floor was made of dark polished oak. Apart from the bed, there was nothing else in the room except a tapestry bell-pull near the door.

“This is Mrs. Uxbridge’s testing chamber, as she called it,” Valentine said. “The canny lady’s seen one too many frauds in her time, so she wanted proof of Mary’s powers before she shelled out good hard pounds on a fraud. The ordeal was thus: Mary was to stay locked within this chamber for thirty days entire with nothing to eat or drink, no visitors, no contact of any kind. Should the girl have a change of heart, the bell-pull was provided. She could ring for help at any time. Before you ask, I’ve tested the bell and it works.”

“It rings in the kitchen?”

“Aye, as is usual. Nothing to show that the bell was put out of commission and then repaired, either.”

Lina nodded. “A point that may prove to be of some importance later. What of the parents, Harry? Surely they knew that something was wrong.”

Valentine looked disgusted. “As long as Mary stayed in the chamber, Mr. and Mrs. Philpott were treated as Mrs. Uxbridge’s guests and friends. Mr. Philpott gave up his job at the silk importers firm and has been wallowing in luxury. Mrs. Philpott is writing a book on the rearing of a modern saint, which has already found a publisher through their patroness’ contacts. The three brothers are slated for university, with Mrs. Uxbridge underwriting the expenses. In fact, if Mary had proven genuine, our devout lady with the deep pockets intended to grant the Philpott’s a very generous pension, in addition to supporting Mary herself.”

“Little wonder that the family’s hopes were pinned upon young Mary.”

“On the thirty-first day, Mrs. Uxbridge unlocked the door – the only key had been in her possession the entire time – and found Mary like this. Not quite the odour of sanctity she was expecting, if you get my meanin’.”

“Oh, yes,” Lina said, all too aware of the musty-sweet scent of recent death that permeated the room. “I can well imagine the lady’s horror.”

“Mrs. Uxbridge ain’t the sort to succumb to a fit of the vapours,” Valentine said. “She summoned the Commissioner of Police, and he summoned Scotland Yard. I’ll wager that Mrs. Uxbridge also summoned you.”

Lina gave Rhiannon a last reassuring caress. “May I?” she asked, nodding towards the corpse without answering Valentine. She knew that he knew his supposition was right. Mrs. Uxbridge had sent a message to Grosvenor Street requesting Lina’s presence at her house in Belgravia, citing a connection of acquaintanceship through Lina’s father, Sir Edward Leigh. She had agreed, although she had no personal liking for the woman.

“Do as you please, milady,” Valentine replied. He took a cigar out of his jacket pocket and shoved it unlit into the corner of his mouth. “The police surgeon will be here soon to take the poor girl away, so be quick about it.”

Lina took the few necessary steps that were required to bring her to the edge of the bed and looked down, trying to capture every detail, no matter how minute. “I estimate that she has been dead for at least ten days.” Dispassionately as possible, Lina touched the corpse, running her fingertips over the leathery skin, the hard bumps of bone. “I can detect no gross injuries. In my opinion - subject to change depending upon the surgeon’s autopsy - Mary Philpott died of thirst and starvation.”

She let the withered head drop back onto the pillow; the girl’s hair felt like straw. Lina gazed into the empty eyes, half-hidden behind the dried-up eyelids, and hoped that whoever was responsible for this tragedy would hang for it. “I shall wish to speak to the parents, as well as to Mrs. Uxbridge and anyone else who is regularly in the house.”

“Mrs. Uxbridge’s son, Richard, lives in the house, along with the servants and a priest named Father Provenza of Sicilian extraction,” Valentine said. “Mr. and Mrs. Philpott are waiting in the drawing room, along with their three sons.”

As Lina turned to go, she heard Rhiannon say, “Those aren’t tooth marks.”

“I beg your pardon, my dear?” Lina swung back to regard Rhiannon, who was still pale as rice-paper but seemed to have recovered some part of her composure.

“On the bed frame. I don’t think those are tooth-marks,” Rhiannon repeated. She indicated a spot on the floor. “And this is odd, too.”

Lina looked in the direction that Rhiannon was pointing. On the floorboards were solid white flakes of some substance which, when she squatted down and scooped up a piece, proved to be dried paint. Automatically, Lina glanced around to ascertain the source of the paint. She also took a second look at the so-called tooth-marks that marred the corners of the bed. After a long moment of cogitation, Lina knew what had happened to Mary Philpott. She did not know who was responsible for the terrible deed, but she intended to find out.

She met Rhiannon’s eyes and saw the same knowledge reflected in those turquoise depths.

Clearing her throat, Lina gestured at Valentine. “Be so kind as to escort us to the drawing room, Harry,” she said, proud that her controlled voice held no hint of a quaver.

Poor girl, she thought, following Valentine down the corridor. Poor benighted child, robbed of any future she may have had, and in such a monstrous fashion. Well, I shall see that justice is done, no matter the cost.

Mr. Philpott was a round little man with a balding pate; deep, bruised-seeming pouches under his little brown eyes enhanced his air of mourning. “Mary, oh, my darling Mary,” he whimpered, clutching a rosary in one hand and a handkerchief in the other.

“It is God’s will,” insisted Mrs. Philpott, a dowdy female whose blotched and swollen face spoke of copious tears. She sat next to her husband on the settee, her spine ramrod straight and her hands folded together in her lap. “God’s will that our darling Mary must join Him now in Heaven, to take her place among the ranks of the blesséd.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Philpott,” Valentine said, “may I present Lady Evangeline St. Claire and her confidential secretary, Miss Rhiannon Moore. Lady St. Claire has been asked by Mrs. Uxbridge to investigate your daughter’s death… in cooperation with the Yard, of course.”

“Of course,” replied Mr. Philpott, wiping his face with the handkerchief. “But I don’t understand why everyone’s making such a fuss. My Mary’s death was the will of God.”

“On the contrary,” Lina said, smoothly injecting herself into the conversation, “your Mary’s death was the will of a very evil person.”

Mrs. Philpott let out a shriek and collapsed against her husband. Mr. Philpott swelled visibly, an arm curled around his wife’s shoulders. “How dare you come here and spout such vile nonsense!” he choked, fresh tears making a slick trail on his round cheeks. “God took our Mary because she was too good for this earth, and you ought not to say otherwise!”

Lina and Valentine exchanged a glance, and then the dark-haired woman turned her attention to the three Philpott sons – James, Edward and Theodore.

She was beginning to suspect that the parents were true believers, who had genuinely thought their daughter was a miraculous fasting maid. However, if one did not believe in Heaven-wrought miracles, then logic demanded another explanation for Mary’s so-called anorexia mirabilis – and that meant an accomplice.

Lina eyed the three young men; the eldest, James, was twenty-one and seemed a likely candidate, except that he was six years older than Mary and, presumably, not as close to the girl as a sibling nearer to her own age. Lina focused her attention on the younger boy, Theodore, who was sixteen. Only a year older than Mary, and she knew that children as young as ten or eleven could be as mischievous as apes, getting into all sorts of scrapes that the parents knew nothing about.

“I’ll speak to Theodore Philpott first,” she said. Neither parent protested, being busy consoling one another and not paying much heed to the rest of the drawing room.

Valentine shrugged and beckoned. “Come along, me lad. It’s time for a chat.”

The Scotland Yard inspector ushered Theodore into a small alcove that was in a corner of the drawing room. Lina and Rhiannon accompanied them. As the ladies neared their destination, Rhiannon said, “May I speak to him first?”

Lina was surprised but nodded her acquiescence. She had little or no experience with children; on the other hand, Rhiannon, as the daughter of a private tutor, who had been raised in the midst of other families, must surely have some insight into a youngster’s psyche.

Rhiannon went over to Theodore in a rustle of taffeta skirts. “Did your sister call you Theo?” she asked gently.

“Yes, miss,” Theodore said, not meeting Rhiannon’s gaze but remaining focused on the floor. His voice trembled slightly, as if weighted by unshed tears. “Mary used to call me Theo.”

“You two were very close, weren’t you?”

“Yes, miss. There weren’t but a year between us.”

Rhiannon took a deep breath. When she spoke, her tone was still gentle, but there was a thread of steel in it that brooked no denial. “Whose idea was it, Theo? To pretend that Mary was a fasting girl. Was it your idea? Or hers?”

Theodore hesitated so long, Lina thought that Rhiannon (and herself, she admitted) were mistaken. Finally, however, the young man’s breath hitched and he said, “Hers.”

“I thought so,” Rhiannon said, putting an arm around his thin shoulders. She gave the boy a smile. “Will you tell me what happened, please? So I can help you.”

The floodgates opened under the influence of Rhiannon’s kindness, and the whole sorry tale spilled out of Theodore Philpott, who was not a bad boy, really; he had gotten caught up in events that spiralled beyond his control.

Lina lit an Egyptian cigarette, and gallantly offered the lucifer to Valentine for his cigar as well, while she listened to Theodore’s story.

Five years ago, Mary had read about a medieval maid who, through the miracle of God, had fasted for twenty years, becoming an object of holy pilgrimage. That was the kernel of the idea. Mary had drawn Theodore into the scheme as her accomplice. Neither child realized how seriously the matter would be taken; they had only done it for a lark. Mary ate nothing in the presence of her parents; she pretended to have no appetite at all. In the night, when everyone else had gone to bed, Theodore brought her food from the pantry. The midnight raids were put down to growing boys, and the parents truly believed in their miraculous daughter. Unfortunately, having established herself as a ‘fasting maid,’ and having fooled so many people, Mary found that it was impossible for her to confess the swindle without hurting her mother and father. Both she and Theodore were too afraid to tell the truth.

“Then she came… Mrs. Uxbridge, I mean,” Theodore gasped, desperately trying to control the sobs that were pushing past his clenched teeth, “and Mary was scared, but I told her it was alright. I told her! And she believed me, and she died…”

Rhiannon held him while Theodore cried, spitting out the remainder of the tale as he wept for the sister who had trusted him, and had her faith betrayed.

When he was done, a woman’s voice behind them said, “Why didn’t you tell me, son? Why didn’t she tell me? It weren’t that bad, you know. I’d rather be made a fool of than see my children suffer…”

Theodore looked at his mother, snuffling, then suddenly burst into tears again. Lina moved aside as Mrs. Philpott barrelled forward, enveloping her youngest son in a fierce embrace. She snagged Valentine by the arm of his jacket and said, “Let us conclude this investigation. Will you gather everyone in the drawing room?”

Valentine looked a trifle wild-eyed – likely due, Lina thought, to young Theodore’s revelations – but he recovered after a moment. “I’ll just go and do that,” the inspector snapped, a very severe set to his mouth that boded ill for anyone who objected.

It did not take very long for the party to be assembled.

All of the Philpotts were there, with Theodore snuggled between his mother and father, who were ashen but grave. Mrs. Uxbridge sat bolt upright in a throne-like chair with her feet on a cushion, looking like a monarch with a headache, while her handsome son, Richard, hovered round, a drone to her queen. Rhiannon took a seat on a hassock near the fireplace. Lina positioned herself in front of the fire; Valentine remained unobtrusively in front of the door, lest anyone consider making a bid for freedom before the proceedings were finished.

“Let me begin by saying,” Lina intoned, gaining everyone’s attention, “that Mary Philpott’s death was murder, not accident or act of God. Someone in this room deliberately took steps that ended a fifteen-year old girl’s life in the most reprehensible manner possible, and for that, the killer will pay the full penalty. Depend upon it.”

Mrs. Uxbridge sniffed. “Your father had an inordinately broad streak of melodrama in him, too,” she said to Lina. “I suspect the world lost a fine theatre actor when Sir Edward took up politics instead of the stage.”

Lina ignored the wealthy matron’s comment in favour of casting a glance around the room that took in every occupant. “Years ago, Mary Philpott and her brother, Theodore, conceived of a lark which they perpetrated upon their parents, with Mary pretending to be afflicted with anorexia mirabilis – a miraculous loss of appetite – while Theodore smuggled food and drink to her. I am sure the children found it greatly amusing, to fool their parents and other adults with what appeared to be a harmless prank. However, when Mrs. Uxbridge entered the scene, matters became quite serious, indeed.”

“I had no idea that the child was a counterfeit,” Mrs. Uxbridge protested, giving Mr. and Mrs. Philpott a pointed look through her raised lorgnette. She swung her gaze in Lina’s direction. “If I had known, I should never have put her in the testing chamber.”

“Thirty days without food or water,” Lina said. “Locked in a room without human contact.” The look she returned to Mrs. Uxbridge sizzled. “Some might call such circumstances inhuman when applied to an adult, much less a girl of such tender years.”

Mrs. Uxbridge had the decency to appear faintly ashamed. “I had thought that a truly saintly maid would find comfort in God,” she said. “Believe me, I wished Mary no harm.”

“It’s alright, mother,” said Richard, patting Mrs. Uxbridge’s bejewelled hand. “I’m sure that no one blames you for what happened.”

“Ah, and what did happen?” Lina leaned a hip against the marble fireplace surround. “Permit me to paint you a portrait of cold-blooded murder.”

She pushed away from the fireplace and began to pace the room, each measured step taking her around the seated suspects. As she spoke, Lina’s hands waved through the air. “Mary Philpott was installed in the so-called testing chamber. Her brother, Theodore, had promised that he would take care of her, and he did. There is a skylight in the ceiling of the room – little used, to judge from the flakes of loosened paint that fell to the floor when he prised it open, but sufficient to allow Theodore to lower food and water down to his sister. He also provided an empty jar for the inevitable waste products of food consumption that would have betrayed their game. It was something he had done in the past, a necessary part of the charade.

“It had been brought home to Mary and Theodore that their mother and father greatly desired to gain Mrs. Uxbridge’s patronage, for such would benefit the entire family. Neither of these children could have predicted the horror that was to come.

“Theodore was caught by someone in the household, trying to smuggle sustenance to Mary. This person told Theodore that he would be in a great deal of trouble – arrested by the police, put on public trial that would bring shame to his family, thrown into gaol – if the truth was exposed. Frightened, Theodore promised to desist, so long as the person took on the task of feeding Mary on the sly. Even then, terrified out of his wits, Theodore strove to protect his sister.”

Lina paused to take a cigarette out of the silver-and-jade case that she carried in her pocket, and light it with a lucifer. Smoke hung in the stale air of the drawing room like a tattered veil. She continued, “We must not assign any trace of blame to Theodore. He is young and afraid and did his best under the circumstances. No, the blame lies elsewhere… with the person who conceived the diabolical plan to eradicate Mary Philpott.

“The scheme was simple.”

She turned to Mr. Philpott. “Tell me, sir, did your daughter suffer from a terror of heights?”

“Yes, she did,” the man replied, shrinking back in on himself when Mrs. Uxbridge sniffed.

“What has one thing to do with the other?” Mrs. Uxbridge asked.

Shielded by the bulwark of his mother’s body, Richard stared at Lina.

“The killer went up to the roof in the small hours of the night,” Lina said, “when Mary and the rest of the household would almost assuredly be asleep. He lowered four rope, each of which had a hook attached. The hooks went through the iron bars on the headboard and footboard of the bed, and the bed – with Mary still in it – was hoisted up into the air.

“Imagine poor little Mary’s shock and horror when she awoke and realized her situation, hovering in mid-air. Her terror of heights would be sufficient to prevent her from jumping down or trying to climb up and out through the skylight. The testing chamber is located far from the remainder of the house; no one would hear her cries. All the killer had to do was wait. He had nothing to lose. Perhaps he checked now and then, going to the roof to look down upon his handiwork. Eventually, the day came when Mary stopped crying for help. She was dead. Our murderer lowered the bed to the floor, disengaged the hooks and pulled the apparatus up, leaving little trace behind. Thus was Mary Philpott, the miraculous maid, murdered. But why? What had this young girl done that warranted death?”

Again, Lina’s emerald gaze swept over the people assembled in the drawing room. “Mrs. Uxbridge supports a good many charitable causes. She spends money supporting an Italian anchorite, a stigmatic, several priests… now she intended to support an entire family of nobodies. It was too much to be borne by the one who had high hopes of inheritance.”

A shocked silence reigned, then Richard Uxbridge shouted, “You filthy lying bitch!” while Mrs. Uxbridge dropped her lorgnette and demanded to know what Lina was about.

“Richard Uxbridge killed Mary Philpott because he could not longer tolerate standing aside and watching his inheritance being drained away on religious fripperies.” Lina remained calm, although she interposed her body between Richard and Rhiannon, in case the man became violent.

“So what if I did?” he sneered, moving away from his mother’s grasp. “That girl was a common little fraud who deserved what she got for trying to take my money.”

“Richard!” Mrs. Uxbridge, quivering with indignation, rose from her chair. “Did you do this awful thing?”

“I did,” he told her bluntly, “and I’m not sorry in the least. The family’s wealth belongs to me! You shouldn’t be giving away my inheritance to these charlatans and false prophets! It’s your fault! Your fault, Mother! Your fault!”

Valentine came to clamp the iron cuffs on Richard Uxbridge’s wrists and lead him away.

Mrs. Uxbridge sank back down, her face bloodless. After a long moment, she said, “Nothing can ever make up for your dear daughter’s death, Mr. Philpott, but will you consider allowing me to help your family? It is the least I can do after… after…”

Mrs. Philpott bustled over to comfort Mrs. Uxbridge when the wealthy matron burst into tears.

Lina and Rhiannon left the house quietly. In the street, Richard Uxbridge was being hauled into a Black Maria, screeching about his inheritance being sold for a ‘mess of pottage.’ The police surgeon’s cart had also arrived to collect the pitiful corpse of poor Mary Philpott.

There would be no more miracles in the house in Belgravia.

THE END

The Perilous Rendezvous by Nene Adams ©2005 - All rights reserved
A Gaslight Series Short Story

“There are two questions waiting for us at the outset. The one is whether any crime has
been committed at all; the second is what is the crime and how was it committed?”
— Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Hound of the Baskervilles

Lady Evangeline St. Claire took a final puff of her cigarette – one of the aromatic Egyptian blend of tobacco that she preferred – and tossed it out of the open window before beckoning to her companion and lover, Rhiannon Moore.

“Come here, my dear. I should like to draw your attention to the activities taking place on the pavement below,” she said.

Rhiannon smiled an apology to Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, and joined the taller woman at the window. She and Lina were paying a call at the gentlemen’s shared lodgings; it seemed rude to ignore their friends in favor of some spectacle. She said as much to Lina, who replied airily, “Oh, I am certain that Holmes will soon have his curiosity satisfied!”

Her own curiosity was piqued. Peering past the lace curtains, Rhiannon saw a number of people on the pavement opposite 221B Baker Street. One of these figures caught her eye immediately. Dark-skinned and black-clad, the man paced up and down, his hands clasped behind his back. Twice, he nearly collided with pedestrians, so intent was he upon whatever inner turmoil caused him such anxiety. Rhiannon drew back a little, unwilling to be seen when the man cast a look towards the window. Lina’s hand settled between her shoulder blades, the touch reassuring and soothing her momentary anxiety.

“There are any number of troubles that a person may bring to a confidential inquiry agent such as Holmes or myself,” Lina said, her breath warm against Rhiannon’s ear. “Blackmail is the commonest; however, in my experience, victims of extortion will attempt to disguise their true identities in a variety of ways, or seek some surreptitious means of entry to avoid being seen by their tormentor. They rarely broadcast their presence so boldly, in full view, and in such a manner as to draw the fullest possible attention to themselves.”

“True,” Holmes said, having come up behind Rhiannon in order to glance over her shoulder at the pacing man. “When one witnesses a person in great agitation, oscillating to and fro upon the pavement outside a private detective’s domicile, one may reasonably surmise that the case has to do with an affaire de coeur.”

Rhiannon almost laughed at the disgruntled expression on Lina’s face. Her partner did not take kindly to being trumped by Sherlock Holmes; their rivalry was like that of siblings, and quite often the pair acted as if they were still in the nursery.

“Well, he doesn’t seem angry,” Rhiannon said, “more perplexed and grieved than suffering a rejection. Perhaps… I believe he’s made up his mind to see you, Mr. Holmes. He’s hurrying across the road… oh! The omnibus nearly had him!”

“Yes, such carelessness definitely indicates a love affair of some kind,” Holmes murmured. “The poor benighted soul.”

Lina snorted. “I beg that you will attempt to quell your tendency towards melodrama,” she said to Holmes, her voice filled with disdain. He shrugged, then returned to the settee and picked up a cucumber sandwich. The clang of the bell from downstairs alerted them to the presence of the potential client. A few moments later, there was a tap at the door.

“Mr. Holmes,” said Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, “there’s a Mr. Reed to see you, sir.”

Holmes welcomed the gentleman with easy courtesy, while Rhiannon played the part of hostess and poured him a cup of tea, serving it without sugar or milk, only a slice of lemon after he murmured his preference. Mr. Reed sat in an armchair near the fire, seemingly oblivious at the stares which were directed his way. His hand shook. After a moment, the bone china cup was dropped on the table with such force, tea slopped over the rim. A loud crack signaled the breaking of the saucer into three pieces.

“I beg your pardon,” Reed said, his voice also cracking. He clenched his hands into fists, the muscle in his jaw working. His accent revealed an American origin. “I did not… that is, it was not my intention…”

Lina glided over to him. “The saucer is of no moment,” she said. “Tell me, Miss Reed – for I see that you are not a man – what is it that troubles you so deeply? You are among friends. I give you my word that we will bend our efforts to help you, provided you are candid with us.”

Miss Reed? Startled, Rhiannon took another look at the person clad in a gentleman’s suit of lightweight black cheviot wool. The dark complexion indicated an African heritage, mixed with that of lighter-skinned Europeans somewhere in her lineage. Her shoulder-length, crinkly locks were drawn back in a sloppy tail at the nape of her neck. Beneath the well-tailored jacket – Rhiannon recognized Saville Row quality, as well as a fine shirt from Pink’s on Jeremy Street, which spoke of money – Miss Reed’s figure was well proportioned, and her height was less than a hand-span smaller than Lina’s six feet.

Regardless of the longish hair Rhiannon would never have guessed that this person was female. Not as the result of any overt signs of masculinity, but simply because in a sexually segregated society, any person in male costume was assumed to be male, unless otherwise indicated. Just as one did not expect to see a man in a dress, one did not expect to find a woman in trousers outside of the stage.

I ought to know better, living with Lina, Rhiannon thought, and sighed.

“Assure yourself that Lady St. Claire speaks for us all, madam,” Holmes added. “I also hasten to give you my word that what is said here remains in this room.”

“Naturally,” Watson said. “I have never known Holmes to break his word… or Lady St. Claire, for that matter.” He went to the gasogene, and returned with a brandy-and-soda which he pressed into the woman’s hand.

“It was Mr. Holmes that I came to see,” Miss Reed murmured, having regained control of herself. She took a sip of brandy, her tongue flicking out to remove a stray drop from her upper lip. “The police, the bank… they all think she’s done it, but I know that isn’t true.”

“Begin at the beginning,” Holmes instructed, beating Lina to the punch and earning a scowl. “Omit no detail, however insignificant.”

A glance from Lina made Rhiannon reach for the little notebook and automatic pencil that she carried in her jacket pocket.

“I have… a particular friend, a Miss Catherine Anderson,” Miss Reed said, settling into the armchair. Her gaze flashed from person to person; evidently, what she saw, or perhaps sensed, made her relax further, a portion of her trust gained. She drained the brandy-and-soda, and placed the empty glass on the table, using exaggerated care. “Miss Anderson is a British citizen, born and raised in London. You may have noticed I’m an American, from Washington.”

“Your nation’s capitol, I believe,” Lina said.

“That’s right. Miss Anderson and I met a year ago at a diplomatic function in Washington. The details aren’t significant to the current case. Our attraction was mutual. Suffice it to say…” Miss Reed broke off. When she resumed, her voice was steady once more, although her trembling hands betrayed some measure of her upset. “Our intention was to live together… a ‘Boston marriage,’ if you like. My position is such that I was unable to join Miss Anderson in London immediately. We carried on a regular correspondence while I put my affairs in order.”

“And Miss Anderson’s affairs?” Holmes asked, steepling his long, thin fingers in front of his face, and slouching down in his chair.

“She is employed by the Cuthbert & Co. Bank on Gracechurch Street.”

Lina nodded. “I know the place.”

“In the City of London, within the financial district known as the Square Mile that stretches from Blackfriars Bridge to Tower Bridge,” Holmes provided at Watson’s puzzled frown. “The bank in question is near the Leadenhall Market.”

“Exactly,” Miss Reed said. “I arrived in London yesterday, and met Miss Anderson for breakfast this morning at my hotel, the Savoy. It was a very joyous occasion. We’d been separated so long, and to finally meet again… it was one of the happiest moments of my life. Our lives, I should say, for Cat… I mean, Miss Anderson… I couldn’t mistake her gladness, nor her contentment over our reunion. Never once, by look or spoken word or deed, did I imagine that she might have cause to regret this renewal of our relationship. Mr. Holmes, Lady St. Claire – I am not a person who is easily gulled. Had I thought for one moment that Miss Anderson rued our meeting and did not desire me to remain in England, I would have left at once rather than stay where I was not whole-heartedly welcome.”

Miss Reed drew a deep breath. “Miss Anderson was to give her notice at the bank. I am not without means; our agreed-upon plan was to travel for a while – Paris, Vienna, Rome, Constantinople – before settling either in Europe or America. Either would have suited me, if Miss Anderson was happy. Now it seems those plans have been shattered by a circumstance which is so strange, so unaccountably bizarre, I can scarcely believe it to be true myself.”

Rhiannon leaned forward, completely mesmerized by the woman’s story.

“Go on,” Lina urged.

Holmes said nothing, but continued to watch Miss Reed, his eyes slitted in concentration.

“Miss Anderson is employed by Cuthbert & Co. as a bank runner,” Miss Reed said. “Every day, she walks through her assigned territory picking up cash deposits from the bank’s customers, among other things. Her schedule is precisely timed, so that by the end of the business day, she has come full circle back to the bank, bringing the deposits with her.”

“Forgive me… is this not an unusual occupation for a woman?” Watson asked.

“You might suppose that the bank would employ armed guards, and possibly a retired military gentleman to collect their funds and securities,” Lina said, “however some financial institutions – Cuthbert & Co. among them, apparently – have decided to be less conspicuous by employing female agents, for the precise reason that few would suspect a woman of holding a position of such responsibility. Furthermore, while would-be thieves might employ deadly force against a man, they will almost certainly underestimate a woman in the same position.” She turned to Miss Reed. “Was Miss Anderson armed?”

“Yes, she carried a Hopkins and Allen .38 caliber rimfire revolver,” Miss Reed replied. “As far as I know, she never had cause to use it.”

Suddenly, a loud bang sounded on the door, which flew open immediately afterwards, revealing an out-of-breath Mrs. Hudson. “Oh, Mr. Holmes! Here’s a to-do,” the stout lady said. “Inspector Lestrade is downstairs…”

“Ah, the Wardington poisoning!” Holmes stood, brushing invisible lint from his waistcoat. “I was anticipating a break in the case. Come, Watson, the game is afoot!”

Miss Reed’s eyes glittered dangerously. She stood, interposing herself between Holmes and the door. There was no doubt in Rhiannon’s mind that if pressed, the American woman would be a formidable opponent. “And my case, sir? Is a woman’s trouble not important enough to hold your attention?”

Holmes waved a hand through the air, coming close to striking Watson, who was hovering nearby with their coats. “My dear madam, I regret most deeply that a prior commitment forces me to abandon your cause. However, I leave you in good hands. St. Claire is more than capable of providing the assistance you require. Damnation! Oh, I beg your pardon… where is that blasted… aha!” He lofted a torn piece of paper, triumph writ large on his saturnine face.

Through the open door came a series of blistering oaths, floating up from downstairs. Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard was clearly impatient. Mrs. Hudson glanced from Holmes to Watson and fled, her face gone white at the inspector’s language. Frowning, Holmes checked Watson’s Army revolver before he and the doctor exited the room in a hurry, leaving Miss Reed, Rhiannon and Lina alone in silence, broken only by the bang of the front door closing behind the men, and Mrs. Hudson’s muffled footsteps on the carpeted stairs.

For lack of anything better to do, Rhiannon poured herself a cup of cooled tea. “Miss Reed, you may not know Lady St. Claire’s reputation, but like Mr. Holmes, she’s a dedicated and highly professional consulting detective.”

“I ascertain that the case is of some urgency,” Lina said, “and delay would prove inadvisable, otherwise I should be glad to give you references.” She took a silver-and-jade case from her pocket, and removed a cigarette. Her ebony brows rose nearly to her hairline when Miss Reed shook a lucifer from a match case taken from her own pocket, and struck it to life, holding the match as gallantly as any gentleman while Lina used it to light her cigarette. That bit of business seemed to dispel any lingering awkwardness. Miss Reed shrugged her shoulders, and flicked the spent match into the fire while Lina blew a stiletto-thin stream of smoke towards the ceiling.

“Miss Anderson and I separated, as she had to go to work,” Miss Reed said, sitting back down and composing herself as though the interruption had not occurred. “We were supposed to meet at the Savoy at four o’clock, and she did not come. I waited for a half-hour, then took a hansom cab to the bank, where I found the whole place in an uproar. After some persuasion, Mr. Plympton – the bank manager – told me that Miss Anderson had skipped with over five thousand pounds in cash, as well as a further two thousand pounds in negotiable bank bonds. He branded her a common thief, as did the police! Why, anything could have happened to Cat! What if she was knocked in the head? What if she’s laying somewhere, injured and frightened and alone…”

Miss Reed inhaled, and released the breath slowly. “It may be argued that a few evenings in Washington twelve months ago, and afterwards a copious correspondence do not equip me to know Miss Anderson so thoroughly, but I tell you now, that woman is incapable of such an act. That is not mere love talking; it is an indisputable fact, a positive certainty, and I stand by that fact with every fiber of my being. I would sooner expect Miss Anderson to fly to the moon than commit common thievery. I swear by all that’s holy, she doesn’t have it in her.”

Rhiannon heard the conviction in Miss Reed’s speech, saw the determination reflected in the woman’s eyes, and believed that she was telling the truth.

Lina looked thoughtful. “So Miss Anderson has vanished, presumed to have taken a considerable sum with her in this unlawful flight.”

“Mr. Plympton, that fool, refuses to listen to reason. He insists that the police investigate the matter as if poor Cat has flown with the cash, which means they’re concentrating on the docks, shipping offices and train stations. I know she’s still in London. I know it!” Miss Reed’s balled-up fist struck her thigh in a display of frustration that was immediately controlled. “I had hoped Mr. Holmes might be persuaded.. but will you help me find her, Lady St. Claire? I’ll spare no expense, of course.”

“Bah! A fee is of no consequence to me,” Lina said. Miss Reed’s dark complexion precluded her turning pale, but her skin assumed an unhealthy grayish hue.

Realizing the woman had misunderstood, Rhiannon hastened to add, “But of course, we will investigate Miss Anderson’s disappearance. You need have no worries on that score.”

Miss Reed’s relief was palpable. She stood, and collected an amber-headed walking cane that had been propped by the side of the armchair. Miss Reed did not quite tap her toe with impatience while she waited for Lina and Rhiannon to collect their gloves and reticules, but her anxiety to be gone was infectious. Rhiannon found herself virtually rushed out of 221B Baker Street, and squeezed between Miss Reed and Lina in the narrow confines of a hansom cab. Lina leaned out of the window. “Time is of the essence!” she instructed the man on the back of the box. “Gracechurch Street as fast as you can, and I’ll add a sovereign to your fare!”

The driver’s whip cracked like a gunshot, the cab lurched, the wheels rattled, and they were away, careening down the street and taking a corner at such speed, the vehicle nearly tilted on two wheels. The driver shouted encouragement to his horse; muscles bunched and twisted beneath the animal’s glossy coat as it stretched out its legs in a gallop, scattering pedestrians, street cleaners, peddler’s carts and other hazards from its path. Rhiannon clapped a hand to her wide-brimmed Gainsborough hat, and held onto Lina with her free hand. Although the day was cool, and the wind of their passage carried the distinct bite of a fast approaching autumn, she felt as though she was burning up, pressed tightly as she was against the two larger women, and subjected to the furnace-like heat that radiated through the layers of their clothing.

The Cuthbert & Co. Bank on Gracechurch Street was a modest establishment, lacking those neo-Classical architectural details that made the Bank of England such an imposing edifice. Nevertheless, the place had an air of commerce that was unmistakable, a je ne sais quoi that Rhiannon could only describe as the ‘smell of money.’ This impression was strangely enhanced rather than destroyed by the uniformed police constables loitering outside. Lina daintily picked up her skirts and vaulted from the hansom cab, pausing to assist Rhiannon. Miss Reed exited with deliberate grace, straightening her rumpled jacket and smoothing back loosened strands of her crinkly hair.

Lina marched inside the bank as if she had every right to be there. Rhiannon privately thought that her lover’s natural arrogance – she was, after all the daughter of a Duchess, with a line of nobility in her veins that stretched back to the Conqueror – was more effective than any pass-key at gaining entrance to the unlikeliest places. Lina’s cold stare, curled lip and flaring nostrils had cowed better men than the employees of Cuthbert & Co. Mere clerks could not withstand the cool glitter in the lady's emerald eyes. Within a very few moments, the women were ushered into the offices of the bank manager, Mr. Plympton.

Mr. Plympton proved to be a small, thin, round-shouldered fellow with a head of gray-flecked brown hair that was receding from his high forehead. “I have already told you, sir,” he began upon spotting Miss Reed, then his eye fell upon Lina, and he paused. She wore an unstructured Liberty silk gown in the avant garde aesthetic fashion, and a hat that was a masterpiece of the milliner’s art, besides being obviously expensive. Like the bank itself, Lina reeked of money, and this more than anything else commanded Plympton’s attention.

“Lady Evangeline St. Claire,” Lina said, advancing on him and giving the man no chance to beat a retreat. She presented him with a calling card taken from her reticule. “I am here to inquire after the whereabouts of Miss Catherine Anderson.”

His manner instantly chilled. “I am sorry to disabuse you, milady,” Plympton said, “but Miss Anderson is a fugitive wanted by the police for theft.”

“Slanderer!” Miss Reed said. Rhiannon put a hand on the dark-skinned woman’s forearm, and shook her head to indicate silence.

“Since the police are already investigating the matter,” Lina said, “you can hardly object to my own participation in the search.” When he opened his mouth, she added, “Any funds discovered by the police will be confiscated until the trial, and held under the charge of a number of financially hard-pressed Scotland Yard sergeants, the cash subject to being partly mislaid or lost altogether…” She left her voice trail off suggestively.

Plympton’s mouth tightened into a straight line, and he grimaced. “Whereas you, Lady St. Claire, pledge to return the bank’s money intact, is that it?”

“Indeed, sir, it is my goal to ensure that the bank’s reputation does not suffer in the slightest; to that end, I shall make good any shortcomings in Miss Anderson’s cash collection from my own pocket, provided you cooperate to the fullest extent possible.”

He shot a suspicious look at Miss Reed, but Lina’s offer was too good to resist. “Very well, milady. I accept your bargain, but remind you that the responsibility of this case – as well as any unpleasant consequences – rest solely upon your head. Like Pontius Pilate, I wash my hands of the affair.” Plympton sat down behind his desk, and clipped a gold-framed pince-nez to the bridge of his nose. The lenses slightly magnified his sherry brown eyes. His expression was pinched, as if an incipient headache threatened, which did not surprise Rhiannon in the least. “What do you wish to know?” he asked.

“How long has Miss Anderson been employed by your firm?” Lina asked.

“Five years,” Plympton answered, fussing with a tin of chocolates that bore a pasted label on the lid that read, Jackerly and Sons, Confectioners. “She has been a satisfactory employee; there are no complaints or reprimands on her record. Miss Anderson gave notice this morning; she intended to leave us in two weeks’ time. It must have been a ruse to allay our suspicions.”

“Do you have Miss Anderson’s route?”

He hesitated. “The runners’ routes are highly confidential. A matter of security, you understand.”

Lina said nothing; she stared at Plympton until he drew a sheet of foolscap towards him, and began to write on it in a banker’s typical copperplate using a fountain pen. The iridium nib scratched over the surface of the paper – the only sound in the manager’s office besides Miss Reed’s breathing and the tick of a clock on the mantelpiece.

After a moment, he said, “The police have determined Miss Anderson’s movements…”

“I beg your pardon,” Lina interrupted, “but I have no desire to be contaminated by Scotland Yard’s fumblings. It is best if I conduct the interviews myself, and trace Miss Anderson’s steps. Have you any notion how long she has been missing?”

Plympton put down the pen, and took an old-fashioned, turnip-shaped silver watch from his waistcoat pocket. “She ought to have returned to the bank two hours ago,” he said, sniffing. “Naturally, I alerted the police at once. This is not the first time that a formerly trusted runner has absconded with a great deal of cash. I’ve told Mr. Cuthbert on many occasions that we ought to send the runners out in pairs, but he will insist…”

“And where was she last seen?” Lina broke in, ending the man’s complaints.

Rhiannon found the answer surprising.

“I saw her across the street, at Mssrs. Jackerly and Sons the confectioners, which is her final destination of the day,” Plympton said, taking up his writing once more. “She did not return from there. I made the inquiries myself, and was told that she had left the premises.”

“Thank you.” Lina accepted the sheet of paper he held out when he had finished making his list. “I shall certainly…”

A man entered the room, unescorted by any clerk or constable. He was tall and quite fat; the lower part of his face was, oddly for the mild weather, swathed in a knitted muffler that, coupled with the hat jammed over his forehead, rendered him almost entirely incognito. Without saying a word, he locked the door, and aimed himself at Plympton’s desk. Miss Reed snatched at his lapel and stopped him.

“Who are you?” Miss Reed asked, her voice a low growl. “A cop? We don’t need anymore calamity howlers, damn your eyes!”

Lina scrutinized the stranger, and suddenly smiled. “Ah, we are joined by a most unexpected and unusual guest. This gentleman rarely leaves his rooms at the Diogenes Club, and his presence here is akin to Mohammed visiting the mountain. May I present Mr. Mycroft Holmes, who holds a somewhat ambiguous position in Her Majesty’s government?”

The man in question removed his hat and unwound the muffler. Rhiannon could discern the resemblance he bore to his brother, although Mycroft was older, and the sharp features that gave Sherlock Holmes an eagle-like aspect were blurred by fat. “Lady St. Claire, Miss Moore,” Mycroft said, nodding his head. He raised an eyebrow at Miss Reed, and was introduced to the ‘gentleman’ by Lina. That social pleasantry accomplished, Mycroft went straight to the point.

“Mr. Plympton,” he said in cut-crystal Oxford tones, “I have come to inform you that Miss Anderson’s disappearance has more far reaching implications than you have conceived.”

Plympton gripped his fountain pen, ink dripping unnoticed onto the blotting paper that protected the top of his desk. “What is it?”

“In addition to her regular duties as a bank runner, Miss Anderson was supposed to procure a package for Mr. Cuthbert from Rosenthal’s, the engraver on Fleet Street.”

“Yes, that’s true. Mr. Cuthbert gave me the order himself.”

Mycroft’s eyes were set beneath prominent brows, and his searing gaze took in every aspect of the small office and the people in it. “This goes no further, ladies and gentlemen. Should the newspapers print an account of what I am about to reveal, I shall know at whose door to place the blame.”

“Of course,” came from Plympton, and a murmured, “Naturally,” from Miss Reed. Rhiannon did not know if the American woman understood the significance of Mycroft Holmes’ position in Whitehall. The older Mr. Holmes was something of an éminence gris, and considered by those in high places to be the most indispensable man working in the British government. That he was here, in this bank, spoke of some incredible circumstance that could mean only ill for the entire nation if it was not successfully resolved.

Mycroft’s next words caused a shock to reverberate around the room. “The package that Miss Anderson was carrying,” he said with gravely, “contained the new printing plates for the five pound note.”

Miss Reed grasped the significance at once, and her eyes flashed in suppressed fury. “What did you mean, sending Miss Anderson on such a dangerous errand? Didn’t you know that would make her a target for God knows what kind of criminals?” She advanced on Plympton, who shrank back and looked to Mycroft for assistance.

“Rest assured, Mr. Reed, that Mr. Plympton had no knowledge of the sensitive nature of the package,” Mycroft said. “The scheme did not have my approval, either, but I was overruled by those who were taken with Mr. Cuthbert’s plan. On the face of it, it seemed an ingenious solution to the difficult problem of transferring the engraved plates from Rosenthal’s to a secure location before they were sent to the Bank of England. Mr. Cuthbert’s assurance was that no one would suspect a female bank runner of carrying these most invaluable and important articles, therefore we need not expect an attempt might be made to steal them. Hah! A money-saving plan that may very well cost England her financial security! Well, now that the woman has done a runner in truth… the sole compensation in this affair is that Miss Anderson can have had no idea what she was carrying. If we are lucky, she will be apprehended before the plates can be sold to anarchists, foreign agents, or simple counterfeiters.”

“How many others besides Mr. Cuthbert and yourself were aware of the scheme?” Lina asked.

“Damned few, if you’ll pardon the indelicacy,” was Mycroft’s answer. “The matter was kept under the tightest security, strictly confidential. I copied the authorization documents myself rather than let a clerk handle them.”

Lina scowled. “And why do you now disclose this information? Of course… your brother knew of the plan beforehand, and when he learned that Miss Anderson had vanished without a trace, Sherlock informed you that I have become involved in the case. You wished to bring me into your confidence, and alert me to the presence of the plates.”

“You have, as usual, milady, struck squarely in the gold.” Mycroft laid a big hand over his heart, and inclined his head. “Sherlock sent me an urgent communiqué stating that he had passed the case into your capable hands. He suggested that you might be found here. I thought it best that you know the stakes involved.” He turned to Plympton. “Scotland Yard is not yet cognizant of the missing Bank of England plates. It will be your task to inform the inspector in charge, and be sure he understand the magnitude of this crime, as well as the necessity for silence! Should word of this reach our enemies abroad…” Mycroft’s massive body shuddered. “The international implications would be very, very bad for this beleaguered nation of ours.”

“I quite understand,” Plympton said. “If you’ll excuse me, I ought to find the inspector straight away.” He removed his pince-nez, and made his way out of the office after unlocking the door.

Mycroft sighed heavily. “I must return to Whitehall. Who knows what may have befallen the government in my absence?”

“We will re-trace Miss Anderson’s route,” Lina said. “Should anything of importance come to light, I will send round a note at once.”

“Good luck, Lady St. Claire.” Mycroft assumed his hat and muffler.

Lina nodded. “Luck will have very little to do with it, Mr. Holmes, but I thank you all the same. Rhiannon and… er… Mr. Reed… come along; there is wickedness abroad.”

“By the pricking of my thumbs,” Rhiannon murmured, quoting Shakespeare.

Miss Reed grimaced, and followed the other two women out of the office, out of the bank, and into a hansom cab for the journey to their next destination – Mr. Walpole Drummond, a chemist whose shop was located near Threadneedle Street

“Nearly as many banks as churches in the district,” Lina observed. She had dismissed the hansom cab once they arrived at the shop; now she shook some wrinkles out of her silk skirts, and continued, “From this point onward, ladies, we travel via Shank’s ten-toed mare” – she thrust out a booted foot to illustrate her point – “even as Miss Anderson did on a daily basis. In this way we may discover some clue that has been overlooked by the police, or at the very least gain an understanding of Miss Anderson’s route. Miss Reed, I must remind you that intimidation tactics will not do in this situation. I beg you will allow me to conduct the investigation in my own way. Should you have something pertinent to contribute, by all means do so. Otherwise…”

“Silence is golden,” Miss Reed said. For the first time in their brief acquaintance, a tiny smile tugged at the corners of the woman’s mouth. She touched the head of her cane to the brim of her bowler hat. “I will be seen and not heard.”

“Excellent.”

A jangling bell over the door announced their arrival. There was a middle-aged woman behind the counter, her plain black bombazine dress covered by a crisp white apron. “May I help you?” she asked, sounding doubtful. Rhiannon thought that the woman did not have much experience with customers who were not bank clerks, typewriter girls or delivery persons.

“My name is Lady Evangeline St. Claire,” Lina said, and proceeded to dazzle Miss Wilhelmina Drummond (the proprietor’s daughter) with a demonstration of upper class charm. She soon had Miss Drummond at ease, leaning an elbow on the counter and chatting away as if she and Lina were two grandmother’s gossipping at a village well.

“Oh, aye, I seen Miss Anderson all right,” Wilhelmina said, “right prompt, as always. Bang on the dot o’ two, never a moment late.”

“Did you and Miss Anderson have a nice chat?” Lina asked.

Wilhelmina giggled. “Of course not!” She almost, but not quite, gave Lina a playful smack on the shoulder. “There ain’t no time. Miss Anderson’s in and out, quick as a wink. My dad’s very strict; the money’s to be done up with the receipts, waiting for the bank miss at 1:55 on the spot. She comes in, takes the money, and she’s gone again without so much as a ‘good afternoon.’”

“Nevertheless, did anything in Miss Anderson’s attitude or appearance strike you as being out of the way? Strange? Out of character?”

The woman started to giggle again, then stopped, frowning thoughtfully. “There’s a thing to ponder, for I’d put it clean out of my mind,” Wilhelmina said in wonderment. “Now as you mention it, milady, there was something off about Miss Anderson. In her appearance, I mean.”

“What was that?” Lina’s expression sharpened at this hint of a clue.

“Her hat,” Wilhelmina said promptly. “Look, Miss Anderson always dresses nice and proper, but practical, too – white shirtwaists, dark blue skirts with horsehair trim on account of the street rubbish, good boots, gloves and jackets. Second hand from Petticoat Lane, no doubt, and decent quality all the same. Her hats is the same, plain and no fuss, none o’ them feathers and flowers and dead birds and such rubbish. Today, though, her hat was… well, it was too big.”

There was silence while Wilhelmina considered the statement she had just made. “It was too big,” she repeated. “One of those wide brimmed hats, like yours, miss,” she said to Rhiannon, “except the brim was turned down. Mushroom-shaped, as t’were. Naught to see save a bit of chin and her mouth. The whole of the thing was feathered and beribboned to a fault, clusters of yellow and green silk flowers, false butterflies, taffeta bows, wax cherries, beading, lace… I never saw anything like it,” Wilhelmina concluded in wistful admiration.

Rhiannon thought the description painted a rather vivid picture of the most execrable and excessive millinery imaginable, but all Lina said was, “I see.”

They spent a few more moments determining that Wilhelmina Drummond had seen nothing else, and then took their leave.

Miss Reed said, “I’ve never known Cat to wear a hat like that. She’s more circumspect in her fashion, as Miss Drummond indicated.”

“Had Miss Anderson also been carrying a bright orange ruffled parasol, I should not be surprised,” Lina said cryptically. She consulted the paper that Plympton had given her. “We must press on, if we are to conclude our investigation before evening falls.” With no further explanation, she started down the pavement.

“Wait a damned minute!” Miss Reed said, snatching at Lina’s arm. “What does it mean?”

“The very prominent hat? We shall wait and see.” Lina side-stepped to avoid being grabbed. “I empathize with your fervent desire to see to Miss Anderson’s safety, and I am also cognizant of your natural wish to be informed of every development; however, my method demands that I draw no conclusions without every fact that can be reasonably determined. I do not explain myself, madam, until the time comes, and only I may say when that time has arrived. When I deem it necessary, I will reveal all to you. In the meantime, you do a disservice by demanding that which I am not yet willing to give.”

“I apologize.” Miss Reed closed her eyes and visibly calmed herself. When she opened her eyes again, she seemed much more amenable to reason. “You see, earlier today, I was so happy, Lady St. Claire, and now…”

Lina patted her hand. “I understand. Come, let us continue our quest for information. I am certain that there is an explanation awaiting us at the end.”

Aware of a police constable who had witnessed the minor altercation between Lina and Miss Reed, and was headed in their direction, Rhiannon was glad when their little group set off to their next destination – Gordon Gallowglass the tobacconist, on Fleet Street. As it transpired, Mr. Gallowglass had nothing unusual to report except the extraordinary hat that Miss Anderson had been wearing. The same was true at Wm. Hogg the stationers on Whitefriars Street, Alfred Stokes the brush-maker next door, the Coney and Sparrow public house on Shoe Lane, the Cheshire Cheese public house across the street, and Rosenthal’s engraving shop, where the missing woman had picked up the package intended for Mr. Cuthbert – the package that contained the Bank of England plates. The further they traced Miss Anderson’s route, and the more proprietors they spoke to, the more it became obvious that the Hat, as it had become capitalized in Rhiannon’s mind, had made a lasting impression on everyone who beheld it.

At last, foot-sore and weary, the women returned to Cuthbert & Co.

Miss Reed impatiently tapped her amber-headed cane on the pavement, and gave Lina a significant glance. “What is your conclusion?” she asked.

“Very well, Miss Reed, your patience should be rewarded. Here is my initial thought – that Miss Anderson could not have made herself more conspicuous if she had hired an oompah-band to accompany her on her rounds,” Lina said, drawing them towards an alley at the side of the bank, where they would have a bit of privacy, and be out of the pedestrian traffic. “Having said that, it was a peculiar kind of conspicuousness that, while garish in the extreme, nevertheless guaranteed her anonymity on two fronts. The first, that such a glittering chapeau would, with near absolute certainty, overwhelm and overshadow the woman wearing it, to the point that the hat would be all that one noticed. Second, the hat’s brim was structured in such a way as to hide the face. Why? What would be the purpose behind such a construction?”

“Because the person wearing the hat was not Miss Anderson,” Rhiannon said. The moment the words came out of her mouth, she knew there was no other explanation.

“A palpable hit, my dear!” Lina said, smiling.

The cane creaked in protest of Miss Reed’s tightening grip. “What happened to Cat?”

“In some fashion not yet determined, I suspect criminals became aware, not only of Miss Anderson’s employment with the bank, but also of the printing plates that she would be carrying today. Perhaps Mr. Cuthbert may be of some assistance…” Lina suddenly looked thunderstruck. She blinked, and finally said, “Of course! Miss Reed, I have a task for you that is vitally important.”

“There’s nothing I won’t do for her,” Miss Reed assured Lina.

“Go and speak to Mr. Plympton. Ascertain if he saw Miss Anderson this morning, before she set out on her scheduled appointments. If not he, then someone inside the bank must have seen her. Try to obtain as complete a description of her appearance as possible. Make haste, madam!” Lina urged. “Time is not our ally.”

Miss Reed ducked inside the building, and returned less than five minutes later. “Indigo skirt, white shirtwaist, fringed shawl and black straw bonnet,” she said, somewhat breathless. “The description was according to Mr. Plympton, and the other female bank runners concur.”

Lina frowned at the sheet of paper, and traced the lines of writing with a gloved fingertip. “Something is missing… but what?”

“Cat must’ve been taken just after she left the bank, because all of her customers reported that damned hat,” Miss Reed muttered. “Where is she? Lady St. Claire, do you suppose her kidnappers will ask for a ransom? I’ll pay it, there’s no question of that.”

“Ransom was not in these men’s minds,” Lina answered, still frowning at the paper. “It was something Mr. Plympton said… aha!” She looked up, crumpled the paper in her fist, and pulled a Webley .455 caliber revolver from her jacket pocket. “Miss Reed, are you armed?”

For answer, the dark-skinned woman removed a LeMat 9-shot revolver with a polished walnut grip from her jacket. The weapon had two barrels; the upper fired .35 caliber ammunition from an 8-shot cylinder, while the lower was a smooth-bore barrel that fired a single .50 caliber round filled with buckshot for true stopping power. “Just tell me what, or who, to aim at,” Miss Reed said, a grim light in her eyes.

“Mr. Plympton told us that the last sighting of Miss Anderson occurred across the street at Mssrs. Jackerly and Sons,” Lina said. “That name is not on my list.”

Rhiannon watched the building out of the corner of her eye. It seemed deserted, until she saw a curtain in one of the upper story windows twitch. The whole structure was hidden behind scaffolding that appeared to have been carelessly erected. Rhiannon would never have trusted her skin to that teetering, lashed-together collection of old boards and skinny pipes. Several men strode up to Jackerly’s front door and went inside. They were broad-shouldered burly types, wearing cheap, ill-fitting suits, and had bowler hats tipped rakishly over their eyes. Rhiannon had known their kind in the East End, in Whitechapel where she had once plied a light-skirt’s trade; these men were tough, hardened by poverty and violence, and just as likely to stick a knife into someone than offer a friendly hand.

“If I am not mistaken,” Lina breathed, “those are members of the Seven Dials gang, headed by Osborne Royden. Miss Reed, reinforcements are required in this instance. Do representatives of the police remain within the bank?”

“You are going nowhere without me,” Miss Reed said, a clear warning in her voice.

“Miss Anderson may be within that building. I cannot be certain…” Lina bit her lip. “A reconnaissance may be wise, to determine if Miss Anderson is inside, and how many gang members are with her.”

“What are they waiting for?” Rhiannon asked, puzzled. “They have the plates, which is what I suppose they wanted in the first place. Why stay there, so close to the bank?”

Lina shrugged. “The gang is no doubt lingering in anticipation of the arrival of their chieftain, Royden. Therefore, we have but a little time in which to act.” She turned to Miss Reed. “I have a plan,” she said, and pulled the American woman and Rhiannon into the alley, where they would not be overheard.

~~~ooo0ooo~~~

Rhiannon watched Miss Reed enter Jackerly and Sons Confectioners, her steps as confident as if she truly was a customer in search of tasty treats, instead of an agent of justice or retribution, as the case required. Lina had gone inside Cuthbert & Co. to have a word with the police inspector. Rhiannon’s task was to loiter outside the bank, as if she was waiting for someone to join her, and keep an eye on anything transpiring across the street. In the event that matters erupted into warfare, or Miss Reed gave a signal that she needed assistance, Rhiannon would summon reinforcements.

Lina joined her after several minutes. “Has there been any activity?” she asked, donning her kidskin gloves.

“Not a peep,” Rhiannon said.

“Inspector Muir proved a tad unwilling to act upon the word of a mere female,” Lina said, making a show of adjusting her bonnet ribbons, to cover the keen glances she was shooting across the street, “but I persuaded him that I was acting under the aegis of Mycroft Holmes. That formidable gentleman’s name was sufficient to gain Muir’s cooperation.”

Rhiannon was relieved that Lina would not be racing into Jackerly’s and confronting the Seven Dials gang alone. Her lover was quite capable of such head-strong behavior, and while Rhiannon trusted that Lina was able to take care of herself, she preferred not to have her nerves (or Lina’s self-defense skills) so sorely tested. “How did Mr. Plympton find your plan?”

Lina scowled. “Mr. Plympton… well, my dear, I believe he is the author of the scheme to steal the Bank of England plates. He is currently in police custody.”

“Oh?” Rhiannon blinked. “How did that come about?”

“The hat,” Lina replied promptly. “Do you recall that I asked Mr. Plympton to tell me where Miss Anderson was last seen? He answered that he had seen her going into Jackerly’s. We already know from our inquiries that everyone else on her route gave some impression of the astonishing chapeau. When Miss Reed told me that Plympton – and another female runner - had described Miss Anderson’s attire of the morning, including a black bonnet, I knew something was not right.”

“If he was able to remember what she was wearing that morning, why didn’t he tell you about that awful hat later in the day?” Rhiannon nodded in comprehension. “In fact, how did he know it was Miss Anderson going into Jackerly’s? It’s impossible for him to see across the street from his office. He couldn’t have seen her unless he was standing outside.”

“True. Furthermore, he told us that he had gone to Jackerly’s to seek Miss Anderson when she failed to appear at the bank. Had he done so in all innocence, I doubt Plympton would have been allowed to go free. Even if he did not recognize the gang members, surely he would have noticed that Mr. Jackerly and his sons were not in evidence, for I doubt such respectable tradesmen are part of the gang. They have no doubt been secured and tucked away until the gang has finished their business. Plympton is a patron of the confectionary; he had a tin of their chocolates on his desk. Anyone with an ounce of sense would have realized that something untoward was going on. But why would he lie? To try and prevent us from investigating Jackerly’s at once. His alerting the police was meant to divert the authority’s attention towards locating Miss Anderson.” Lina made a face. “Had I not been so intent upon proper investigative technique, I would not have wasted so much time. As it is, if something has happened…”

Lina broke off as a gunshot sounded from the scaffold-shrouded building.

“Quickly, my dear! Fetch Inspector Muir!” Lina shouted as she darted across the street, adroitly avoiding carts, carriages and cabs.

“Wait!” Rhiannon called after her heedless partner. Frustrated and worried, she hauled up her skirts and ran into the bank, shouting for Inspector Muir.

In the short amount of time it took for the inspector and a team of constables to hasten to Jackerly’s, the single gunshot had turned into several. Rhiannon thought the gang must have been armed to the teeth. Only Muir had a revolver; while the constables cleared the street, he settled himself behind an abandoned beer cart and waited. Rhiannon gnawed her bottom lip, terrified for Lina’s safety. Just when she thought she must scream or die from suspense, Lina poked her head out of the door. “Come along, man!” she cried. “What the Devil are you waiting for? Bring your Myrmidons, as well, for the stout arm of the law is what is wanted here.”

The gunfire had ceased. Inspector Muir, his face rubicund with humiliation, snapped at his constables and chivvied them into the building, and Rhiannon followed hot on his heels. They found the gang members subdued, one of them nursing a bleeding arm, and the rest held quiet at the point of Lina’s trusty Webley. Miss Reed was on the floor, using a clasp-knife to sever the ropes that were binding a pretty blonde woman dressed in a crumpled white shirtwaist and indigo blue skirt. As she sawed carefully at the rough hemp ropes, Miss Reed planted delicate kisses over Miss Anderson’s face, and murmured soft reassurances.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Inspector Muir asked after he had directed his men to begin handcuffing the gang members.

Having left off guarding the gang after the arrival of the constables and their Darby handcuffs, Lina was rooting around the counter, opening tins of chocolates and casting them aside. She ignored the inspector’s question until the man banged his hand on top of the counter, demanding her attention. “Mr. Reed was forced to shoot that fellow in self-defense,” she said. “I assure you, sir, that you would do better to concern yourself with the notorious Seven Dials gang, who have kidnapped and held this young lady, Miss Anderson, against her will. I suspect a white slavery ring. Further interrogation of the prisoners will assuredly yield a plethora of confessions; there should be no difficulty finding charges enough to prosecute these men.”

A middle-aged gentleman and two younger men – presumably Mr. Jackerly and his sons – were brought out from the rear of the shop; all three bore marks upon their wrists, bruises, and other signs of having been tied up and brutalized. “Thank you, sir, thank you!” the elder Mr. Jackerly said to Muir, wringing the inspector’s hand. “Your rescue was well timed! I shudder to think what may have happened if you had not risked yourself to save us!”

“Well, I was only doing my duty,” Muir said, puffing his chest out like a pigeon’s.

Rhiannon hissed in effrontery at the man’s blatant theft of the credit of the case, but Lina shook her head. “My dear, we have greater concerns. I have yet to discover the plates!”

Mycroft Holmes, accompanied by a number of distinguished gentlemen – including Colonel Sir Edward Bradford, the Metropolitan Police Commissioner – entered the shop. While Sir Edward pulled Muir aside to question him, Mycroft made a bee-line for Lina. “Have you found the engraving plates?” the heavyset man asked.

“As of yet, no,” Lina said. “They could be anywhere.”

“This poses a problem.” Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed wearily. “I cannot inform the police of the theft. The matter is far too sensitive. Should a single whiff of this catastrophe escape and be caught by members of the Press… I need say no more. Sir Edward will ensure Muir’s silence, and I doubt the common gang members were told what lay within the package. There is only so much trust among thieves. However, Royden is still at large. If we do not find the Bank of England plates, he may take them himself and disappear. I dare not ask for police surveillance of the shop…perhaps my brother has an idea…”

“I can help, I think,” Miss Reed said. She had joined the group, and stood with an arm around Miss Anderson’s waist. The other woman – slightly smaller and possessing the delicate prettiness of a Dresden figurine – leaned against Miss Reed for support. There were livid weals around both of her wrists, and her left cheek was bruised.

“I daresay that England will be grateful for any assistance you can render,” Mycroft said.

Miss Reed shrugged. “I have what I came for,” she said, gazing at Miss Anderson with a tender expression. “The plates are in a box of chocolates… I overheard that much when I came in. Then that one,” she continued, jerking her chin in the direction of the bleeding gang member, “came out from the back of the shop, talking about Plympton and wondering why Royden was taking orders from a ‘bloody’ bank clerk. That’s when I heard Miss Anderson scream.”

“I had worked the gag out of my mouth,” Miss Anderson said, looking slightly abashed and proud at the same time.

Miss Reed gave her friend's hand a gentle squeeze. “That fellow pulled a knife and was headed towards a storage cupboard, and I knew Miss Anderson was inside. I had to defend her, which is why I shot him. Next thing I know, some of the gang are shooting back, and Lady St. Claire came inside to help me.”

“The Crown will prefer no charges,” Mycroft said. “Continue, madam.”

“Do you remember the chocolate box from Jackerly and Sons that Plympton had on his desk?” Miss Reed asked Lina, who nodded.

“Of course! Who else would take charge of the precious plates! The gang must have been ordered by Royden to stay nearby, to ensure that their confederate would not do a flit. And hiding the plates at the bank was a stroke of cleverness… who would think of looking for them in the very place they were supposed to be! Mr. Holmes, Plympton is already in police custody, and I think on his way to Bow Street,” Lina said to Mycroft. He hastened to Sir Edward, and after a swift conference, the two gentlemen hurried across the street to the bank.

It was not long before Black Marias arrived to transport the prisoners to the Bow Street police station. Miss Reed and Miss Anderson lingered to hear the good news that Mycroft and Sir Edward had found the vital Bank of England plates in the chocolates tin on Plympton’s desk. Mr. Cuthbert’s arrival on the scene unveiled the fact that he had, indeed, informed Plympton of his plan to use Miss Anderson to transport the plates from Rosenthal’s; the man had believed that Plympton, who had managed the bank for twenty years, could be trusted with the secret.

“Two can keep a secret if one is dead,” Miss Reed said, scowling.

Mycroft inclined his head. “I could not agree with you more, madam.” The look he gave Mr. Cuthbert, the owner of the bank, was nearly sharp enough to draw blood. It was clear, from the thinning of his lips and the slow angry flush that crept along his jowls, that Mycroft intended to speak to Cuthbert about his foolish disregard for proper security.

Cuthbert had the sense to be ashamed of his lapse. “I understand that you gave your notice this morning,” he said to Miss Anderson. “What happened today is deeply regrettable, and I offer you my most humble apologies. Perhaps you will reconsider your decision to leave the bank. You are a valued employee, Miss Anderson, and I shall regret losing you.”

“I’m very sorry, sir, but as it happens, I’m leaving for America as soon as can be arranged,” Miss Anderson said, her dignity intact despite her wrinkled clothing, bruised face, and tousled blonde hair. “I trust there won’t be any trouble if I decline to remain in your employ for the full two weeks required?”

“My dear young lady, I shall have your severance pay drawn up at once, if you desire.” Cuthbert seemed relieved to have gotten off so lightly.

Miss Reed seemed inclined to give Cuthbert the rough side of her tongue for placing Miss Anderson in danger, but her companion’s breathless declaration of exhaustion triggered the woman’s need to see to her friend’s comfort. “I must get Cat to the hotel,” she said to Lina and Rhiannon. “How can I thank you for your help? You believed in me, and in Cat, enough to risk your lives against that gang of thugs. Without you, I don’t think she would have survived.”

“Yes, thank you, Lady St. Claire, Miss Moore,” Miss Anderson said, swaying against Miss Reed and giving her American friend a tired little smile.

“It was our pleasure to reunite you,” Lina said.

Rhiannon grinned. “Just take care of each other. That’s all the thanks we need.”

Miss Reed helped Miss Anderson into a hansom cab, and they were soon gone from sight.

“Now, my dear, what are your plans for what remains of the evening?” Lina asked, looking down at Rhiannon.

“Supper at Romero’s,” Rhiannon said, “then home to Grosvenor Street, where I will lecture you on the appalling habit of putting yourself in harm’s way…”

“I am sorry, my dear.”

“…and after I’m done berating you, I hope we’ll kiss and make up.”

Lina sidled closer. “Perhaps,” she said slyly, “we might kiss now, and make up later.”

“Perhaps…” Rhiannon said, quirking her lips.

A second hansom cab was quickly summoned, and the driver directed to Romero’s in the Strand. Overhead, the sun was sinking beyond the horizon in a blaze of mauve and gold, and stars were appearing in the deepening dusk. Gaslights were being lit up and down the street by a pair of lamplighters in broadcloth coats, their long sticks balanced over their shoulders. The lamps glittered at first, white and clear as the stars above, but soon settled to a steady yellow glow that reflected from the surrounding buildings, including Cuthbert & Co.

The gathering shadows hid the two figures in the cab as they slid together, so close that they were indistinguishable from one another, and where one ended and one began could not be told… which was precisely as it should be.

THE END

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Table of Contents

Black by Gaslight

The Devil's Advocate

The Banshee's Wail

The Hour of the Jackal

The Mystic Dragon's Curse

The Changeling's Moon

The Alabaster Hand

The Poltergeist Puzzle

The Fall of the Phoenix

The Ides of October

The Eyes of the Idol

The Body on the Serpentine

The Disappearance of the Devil's Eye

The Cupid's Dart

Art in the Blood

The Miraculous Fast

The Perilous Rendezvous

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