Her Dark Curiosity (The Madman's Daughter 2)

I had promised Edward I would help him.

But a promise to a murderer was a dangerous thing.

TWENTY-THREE

WE ONLY SLOWED WHEN we reached Piccadilly Circus, where the streets were filled with people no matter the hour. I tore my hand from Montgomery’s and doubled over against a lamppost.

“I need to catch my breath,” I gasped.

Montgomery paced along the curb, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. His eyes went to every shadow as though Edward might be there.

“We have to go back for Lucy. She’s in danger,” I said.

“The Beast wouldn’t kill in public. He’s a devil, but he’s no fool. All this is nothing more than a game to him.”

I thought of the Beast dragging me beneath the mistletoe, wanting a stolen kiss. A game? Perhaps, but the deadliest game I’d ever known.

“What exactly did he say to you?” Montgomery asked.

“He saw you and me together in the garden. I think he was jealous.”

“Damn it all.” Montgomery kept pacing the length of the curb, bristling whenever a carriage passed.

“If we aren’t going back for Lucy, then I’ve got to go home. The professor and Elizabeth will wonder where I am,” I said. “And I have to be certain Elizabeth made it home safely.”

Montgomery considered this for the space of a few breaths. His forehead creased even deeper. “Are you certain we can trust the professor? He was once a King’s Man.”

It ruffled me to hear him suggest such a thing, just as Edward once had, though I knew he was only being careful. “You heard those men on the balcony—they’ve been after him for information and he’s refused them each time. Perhaps he suspects what they’re involved in. He might be able to help us.”

“Have you told him anything about the island?”

“Only that I found Father there, and he died. Nothing more. I’ve told Elizabeth even less.”

“I’d rather keep it that way for now. The fewer people involved, the better. I’m thankful for what the professor’s done for you, but I’m not inclined to trust anyone right now. We don’t know how far this conspiracy reaches.”

I shivered. I’d lost his suit jacket in the chaos, and my bare arms were riddled with goose flesh. My thumb suddenly jerked of its own accord, and a dull ache spread to my left hand—a bout of illness coming, as I’d feared. I rested my head in my stiffening hands, trying to breathe, as a wave of vertigo engulfed me. Montgomery must have seen me swaying, because he crouched down and took hold of my hands to steady me.

“What is it? What is wrong?”

“My illness,” I managed to whisper, though the sudden pain was so great it even hurt to speak. “It comes to me in waves. It’s gotten worse these last few months. Father’s serum is failing. I’ve been trying to create a new treatment, but I’ve had no success.”

“You’re burning up,” Montgomery muttered, feeling my forehead. “We’ve got to get you out of this cold. Can you walk?”

I tried to push myself up, but dizziness sent me back to the cobblestones. “I just need another moment.”

“We don’t have another moment,” he said. “You need medical care, and we need to get off the streets.” He picked me up, and my protests were lost in the rustling of my red silk dress. “I’ve let a room at an inn in Camden Town, not far from here. I have medical supplies there.”

“But the professor will worry.”

“Blast and damn the professor,” Montgomery said. “He shall have to worry a few hours longer. If I take you to his house in this state, he’ll likely murder me.”

By the time we reached Camden Town, the moonlight cast faint light over the street, where rats nosed through rubbish. The streets were even tighter here than in Whitechapel, where makeshift hovels of tin and loose brick crowded both the sides of the road.

He stopped outside a public house on the corner. One shattered window had been hastily plugged with newspaper, but that didn’t keep the smell of sour beer from coming out of it. There were chains above the door where a sign should have swung, but any sign had long since abandoned the place.

I convinced him I was well enough to stand, though he kept one arm around my waist for support. “I thought you said it was an inn,” I muttered. “This looks more like the gutter.”

“We left the island with only the shirts on our backs,” he said. “I’ve earned a few crowns here and there doing medical work, but it isn’t cheap tracking a murderer.” He tilted his head toward an upper floor window, put two fingers to his lips, and whistled a high, shrill note.

“We?” I said, trying to clear the fuzzy corners of my head. “Aren’t you here alone?”

An upstairs window swung open and a hairy face shone in the moonlight, deformed and hideous, then cracked with a wide smile. Despite how ill I felt, I couldn’t resist grinning back with a sudden giddy rush. Montgomery had brought Balthazar with him. It defied logic that he was even still alive, yet it was impossible not to delight at the sight of that ugly face that was so dear to me.

“Balthazar!” I called.

When I had met Balthazar for the first time, I’d been frightened by his sunken eyes and hunchback and enormous size, until I’d noticed the tray of tea and biscuits he held. He might have been one of Father’s creations, but he was no demon.

“We’re coming up,” Montgomery yelled, and Balthazar’s head disappeared. Though it was good to see Balthazar, I couldn’t help but throw Montgomery a worried glance. Why had Montgomery brought him back to London? Wasn’t it dangerous? We had sworn not to let any of Father’s creatures off the island. The King’s Club was already after Edward; what would happen if they learned of Balthazar’s existence, too?

But Montgomery held the door open for me, and I resolved to ask him later, when my head wasn’t spinning so fast. The ground floor was a run-down alehouse where leering men of the sort to still be drinking long after midnight peered at us as Montgomery led me to the narrow back steps, where the frigid night wind blew straight through the chinks in the wall.

The stairs protested under our weight as Montgomery helped me shuffle up them. We reached the top and Montgomery fumbled with his keys, but the creaky door flung open and Balthazar threw his arms around me.

I stiffened at first, but quickly relaxed and hugged him back. Now I understood why they say smell can evoke the strongest memories. There were the smells of London on him—candle wax, greasy fried fish—but beneath that was his smell, like damp tweed and woodsmoke, and my gut pulled at the fierce recognition.