academics. I dusted off my coat and ran my fingers through my hair before ringing the doorbell.
The door was opened by an old man dressed in a three-piece black suit who might look stern if not for the deep wrinkles around the corners of his eyes, which betrayed his inclination to smile in a charmingly crooked way – a habit he gave in to now.
‘Juliet,’ he said, ‘I was starting to worry. How was your visit with Lucy?’
I smiled, the only way I knew to hide my guilt, and pulled off my gloves. ‘You know Lucy, she could chatter away for hours. Sorry I’m a bit late.’ I kissed his cheek as if that would make up for the lie, and he kindly helped me out of my coat.
‘Welcome home, my dear,’ he said.
2
Professor Victor von Stein had been a colleague of my father’s – and the man who turned him in to the police ten years ago for crimes of ethical transgression. The professor’s betrayal of their friendship might have bothered me when I was younger and still had respect for my father, but now I thought he’d done the world – and me – a favor. I owed him even more because, for the last six months, he’d been my legal guardian.
When I’d left Father’s island, I’d followed Montgomery’s instructions to find a Polynesian shipping lane and, after nearly three scorched weeks in the dinghy, was picked up by traders bound for Cape Town. From there, the expensive trinkets Montgomery had packed bought me passage to Dakar, and on to Lisbon. I’d gotten sick on the last leg of the voyage, and by the time I reached London was little more than a skeleton, raving about monsters and madmen. I must have said my friend Lucy’s name, because one of the nurses had summoned her, and she’d taken care of me, but my good fortune ended there. One of the doctors was an old acquaintance from King’s College by the name of Hastings. A year ago he’d tried to have his way with me and I’d slit his wrist. As soon as he learned I’d returned, he’d had me thrown in jail, which was where Professor von Stein had found me.
Lucy Radcliffe told me your circumstances, he had said. Is it true what you did to this doctor?
He needn’t have asked. The scar at the base of Dr Hasting’s wrist matched my old mortar scraper exactly.
It is, I’d said, but I had no choice. I’d do it again.
The professor had studied me closely with the observant eyes of a scientist, and then demanded I be released into his custody and the charges dropped. Hastings didn’t dare argue against someone so highly respected. The next day, I went from a dirty prison cell to a lady’s bedroom with silk sheets and a roaring fire.
Why are you doing this? I had asked him.
Because I failed to stop your father until it was too late, he’d replied. It isn’t too late for you, Miss Moreau, not yet.
Now, sitting at the formal dining table with a forest of polished silver candlesticks between us, I secretly kicked off my slippers and curled my toes in the thick Oriental rug, glad to put that old life behind me.
‘An invitation arrived today,’ the professor said from his place opposite me. The hint of an accent betrayed that he’d grown up in Scotland, though his family’s Germanic ancestry was evident in his fair hair and deep-set eyes. A fire crackled in the hearth behind him, not quite warm enough to chase the cold that snuck through the cracks in the dining room windows.
‘It’s for a holiday masquerade at the Radcliffes’,’ he continued, removing a pair of thin wire-rimmed spectacles from his pocket, along with the invitation. ‘It’s set for two weeks from today. Mr Radcliffe included a personal note saying how much Lucy would like you there.’
‘I find that rather ironic,’ I said, buttering my roll with the hint of a smile, ‘since last year the man would have thrown me into the streets if I’d dared set foot in his house. He’s changed his tune now that I’m under your roof. I think it’s you he’s trying to win over, Professor.’
The professor chuckled. Like me, he was a person of simple tastes. He wanted only a comfortable home with a warm fire on a winter night, a cook who could prepare a decent coq au vin, and a library full of words he could surround himself with in his old age. I was quite certain the last thing he wanted was a seventeen-year-old girl who slunk around and jumped at shadows, but he never once showed me anything but kindness.
‘I fear you’re right,’ he said. ‘Radcliffe has been trying to ingratiate himself with me for months, badgering me to join the King’s Club. He says they’re investing in the horseless carriage now, of all things. He’s a railroad man, you know, probably making a fortune shipping all those automobile parts to the coast and arranging transport from there to the Continent.’ He let out a wheezing snort. ‘Greedy old blowhards, the lot of them.’
The cuckoo clock chimed in the hallway, making me jump. The professor’s house was filled with old heirlooms: china dinner plates, watery portraits of stiff-backed lords and ladies whose nameplates had been lost to time, and that blasted clock that went off at all hours.
‘The King’s Club?’ I asked. ‘I’ve seen their crest in the hallways at King’s College.’
‘Aye,’ he said, buttering his bread with a certain ferocity. ‘An association of university academics and other professionals in London. It’s been around for generations, claiming to contribute to charitable organizations – there’s an orphanage somewhere they fund.’ He finished buttering his roll and took a healthy bite, closing his eyes to savor the taste. He swallowed it down with a sip of sherry.
‘I was a member long ago, when I was young and foolish,’ he continued. ‘That’s where I met your father. We soon found it nothing more than an excuse for aging old men to sit around posturing about politics and getting drunk on gin, and neither of us ever went back. Radcliffe’s a fool if he thinks they can woo me again.’
I smiled quietly. Sometimes, I was surprised the professor and I weren’t related by blood, because we seemed to share what I considered a healthy distrust of other people’s motives.
‘What do you say?’ he asked. ‘Would you like to make an appearance at the masquerade?’ He gave that slightly crooked smile again.
‘If you like.’ I shifted again as the lace lining of my underskirt itched my bare legs like the devil. I’d never understand why the rich insisted on being so damned uncomfortable all the time.
‘Good heavens, no. I haven’t danced in twenty years. But Elizabeth should arrive by then, unless there’s more snow on the road from Inverness, and I’ve no doubt we shall be able to wrangle her into a ball gown. She used to be quite the elegant dancer, as I recall.’
The professor stowed his glasses in his vest pocket. Elizabeth was his niece, an educated woman in her mid-thirties who lived on their family estate in northern Scotland and served the surrounding rural area as a doctor – an occupation a woman would only be permitted to do in such a remote locale. I’d met her as a child, when she was barely older than I was now, and I remember beautiful blond hair that drove men wild, but a shrewdness that left them uneasy.
‘You know how the holidays are,’ he continued, ‘all these invitations to teas and concerts. I’d be a sorry escort for you.’
‘I very much doubt that, Professor.’
While
