Quicksilver

TWENTY-TWO

“What do you know of Gilmore Leybrook?” Owen asked.

“Very little, to be honest,” Virginia said. “No one does. He is a talent of some kind, but I’ve never been certain of the exact nature of his ability. He arrived on the London scene about a year ago and established the Institute. He was successful right from the start.”

“He must have money, in that case. The Institute is an expensive operation.”

“One of Leybrook’s many talents is his ability to attract funding for the Institute,” Virginia said dryly. “He is charming and persuasive. There is something about him that draws people to him.”

“A side effect of his talent, perhaps, whatever it is.”

They were back on the street, walking toward the park, where Owen hoped that they would find a cab. That prospect was dimming rapidly. The streets around the Institute were empty. It was nearly midnight, and the fog had thickened to the point where the gas lamps appeared only as glary orbs in the mist, the light they cast all but useless.

Part of him was attuned to the currents of the night, listening for the sound of footsteps that might signal the approach of a footpad. But they had the street to themselves. Normal people, not even normal street thieves, went abroad at night in such an impenetrable atmosphere, he thought. But he and Virginia were not what most people would call normal.

It felt good to share the night and the hunt with this woman at his side. It felt right.

“If we are correct in our initial conclusions, you were the killer’s intended victim the night you read the looking glass for Lady Hollister,” Owen said. “But things went wrong. Hollister ended up dead, and you and one of Hollister’s other intended victims, Becky, escaped. I am quite certain the second killer did not plan that ending to the affair.”

“What was Becky doing there that night?” Virginia asked. “Why would she have been needed if I was the intended subject of the experiment?”

“Good question. I asked one of my aunts to stop by the Elm Street charity house today to inquire about Becky.”

“You did?” Virginia turned her head quickly to look at him. “Was there any news of her?”

“My Aunt Ethel reports that Mrs. Mallory was able to persuade Becky to attend the charity school.”

“I’m so glad,” Virginia said. “If she learns typing or telegraphy she will have a chance to forge a respectable career for herself. She will be able to escape the streets. I still find it hard to believe that Arcane has taken over responsibility for the school.”

“A sign of a change in the organization, perhaps,” Owen said.

“I’m far from convinced that Arcane is truly changing, but I suppose I must allow for that possibility.”

They walked in silence for a time, their footsteps echoing eerily in the fog.

“There is something else besides my talent and my association with the Institute that I have in common with Ratford and Hackett, now that I think about it,” Virginia said after a while.

He glanced at her, but in the darkness she was all but invisible to the eye. But not to his other senses, he thought. He would always know when she was anywhere in the vicinity. Her energy would always thrill him.

“What is that?” he asked.

“Ratford and Hackett were both spinsters with no immediate family. So am I. The deaths of women like us, those who are alone in the world, are almost certain to go unnoticed by the authorities.”

“The killer did not take Arcane and its new investigative agency into account,” Owen said. A cold satisfaction flashed through him. “That will prove to be his great mistake.”

“No,” Virginia said quietly. “His mistake was that he did not take you into account, Owen Sweetwater.”

At the end of the street, carriage lights glowed weakly in the fog.

“We’re in luck,” Owen said.

They quickened their pace. The driver was glad of the fare on what had evidently been a very slow night. Owen bundled Virginia into the cab and sat down across from her. The vehicle rumbled forward.

“I may have an idea,” Virginia said with a meditative air. “I do not know if it will be of any use, but you might find it of interest.”

“Tell me,” he said.

“There is a social event planned at the Institute tomorrow night. Everyone connected to the organization will be there. Leybrook is giving a reception in honor of D. D. Pinkerton, the mentalist from America. Pinkerton arrived recently in London and is very popular. Leybrook hopes to persuade him to become affiliated with the Institute.”

“You are thinking that perhaps the killer may be in the crowd?”

“If he is involved with the Institute, as you believe, then yes, it is very likely that he will attend,” Virginia said. “Of course, there will probably be over a hundred people there. That makes for a very large pool of suspects.”

“Yes, but we know a little more about him now. And I think there is every possibility that the killer will be drawn to you in the crowd.”

“What makes you believe that?”

“You were the intended subject of his grand experiment, whatever it is, and you got away. You ruined his plans. He wanted you before, but now he will be obsessed with you.”

“You sound very sure of your analysis of his thinking.”

Owen looked out the window into the night. “It is what I do, Virginia. It is the way I hunt. I saw the killer’s obsessive nature in the energy he left at the scenes of the murders. He is driven by a force that is as strong as physical passion. In fact, the compulsion is a form of sexual desire.”

She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

Owen turned back to her. “When he returns to the scenes of the murders, he no doubt tells himself that he is merely studying the evidence of his successful experiments. But the truth is that the scenes of death arouse him in a sexual manner. He is thrilled by what he has accomplished.”

“Thrilled by the act of murder?”

“The death scenes fill him with a ravishing sense of his own power. I suspect that in the past he has felt quite the opposite. Weak and powerless. Unimportant. But now he has found a way to make himself feel strong and powerful. He has become addicted to the sensation. He will continue to kill until he is stopped.”

She shuddered. “And all the while he will tell himself that he is actually conducting some sort of scientific experiment.”

“Yes. You say you plan to attend the reception at the Institute?”

“Certainly. The receptions are good for business. Leybrook gives them regularly. My colleagues and competitors will all be present.”

“I will escort you.”

She blinked. “Are you serious?”

“When it comes to the hunt, I am always serious.”

She pursed her lips. “I really don’t think that is a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“I am planning to attend with a friend.”

He felt his insides tighten. “A male friend?”

“No, a female friend. She owns a bookshop.”

“She is single also?”

“Yes.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Owen, please, think about this for a moment. It is one thing to tell people that I am allowing you to conduct some tests and experiments on me. But if you appear with me at the reception, people may begin to suspect that our relationship is of an entirely different nature.”

“An intimate nature, do you mean?” he asked without inflection.

Her mouth opened and closed, and then opened again. She waved her hands in a warding-off gesture.

“There was only the one incident,” she said quickly. “I am fully aware that our interlude the other night was the result of the effects of the intense energy that we encountered at the scene of the murder. It affected our nerves.”

He should have seen this coming, he thought, but once again he was blindsided by her failure to acknowledge the bond between them. Blindsided and more than a little annoyed.

“Is that all it was to you?” he asked. “Therapy for a mutual case of shattered nerves?”

“I realize that you never intended the evening to end the way it did,” she said. She was very earnest. “It was my fault. I’m the one who invited you in for a glass of brandy.”

Anger crackled through him.

“And now you do not want your friends and associates to see me with you in a social setting?”

“Damnation, sir, do not put words in my mouth. I am attempting to make it plain that I do not hold you responsible for what occurred between us. As a matter of fact, it is your reputation that concerns me.”

He stared at her, nonplused. “What the devil are you talking about?”

“It is common knowledge that you will soon be in the market for a wife.”

He was stunned, shocked nearly witless. No one outside the family knew that he was hunting for a wife. No one outside the family understood why finding a mate was so important to a Sweetwater male. No one. It was the darkest of the Sweetwater family’s many dark secrets.

“Where did you hear that?” he demanded, when he could collect his thoughts.

“I asked my friend Charlotte to look into your family background,” Virginia admitted.

“She discovered that I am hunting for a wife?” He still could not comprehend how the wall of secrecy that surrounded the family had been so easily breached.

“She discovered that you are descended from an old, established family in which the men tend to marry, at the latest, in their early thirties.” She cleared her throat. “It was obvious to both of us that you would soon be looking for a wife if, indeed, you hadn’t started the process already. You obviously have a responsibility to your family.”

Relief slammed through him. He settled back into the corner of the carriage. The Sweetwater secret was still safe.

“You’re right,” he said. “The men in my family are generally married by their late twenties or early thirties. You could say it’s a tradition.”

“Yes, of course,” she said tightly. “In a proud family such as yours you naturally want heirs to carry on the name.”

“More like heirs to carry on the family talent,” he said. “But when a Sweetwater sets out to find a bride, he does not concern himself with society’s dictates and customs. He hunts for a wife the same way he hunts his prey. He follows his own rules.”

“Owen—”

“I do not want to talk about marriage tonight.” He drew her into his arms. “That is for the future. At the moment I would much rather kiss you.”

Her lips parted on what he feared would be another question. He covered her mouth with his own before she could say anything else.