Her Majesty's Necromancer (The Ministry of Curiosities #2)(43)

"Good lord. Do you think she meant Frankenstein?"

"Perhaps. He certainly could have caused great harm if he'd managed to build an army of strong corpses."

"And if my necromancy is considered magic, then that fits too." I waited for him to add more, but he didn't. It seemed I would have to broach the subject instead. "Did your mother let you go freely?"

"I don't know. The general has told me so little about her."

"What do you know?"

"That she fell pregnant at a young age and wasn't married. That removing me from her was a blessing, for both her and me. She couldn't have afforded to raise me, apparently, and I would have lived a life of squalor."

I wondered if the general could be believed. Lincoln seemed to, although he spoke stiffly, formally, as if he didn't want to think too much about it. If he'd led a lonely, unhappy childhood, it was no wonder he had difficulty expressing himself and showing kindness.

"You were raised to be a killing machine, weren't you?" I hedged.

He looked at me with wide eyes that quickly narrowed again. "Among other things," he snapped.

"I…I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend. I just meant that you're supposed to save the world from dark forces, so you must have been prepared accordingly."

"I speak a dozen languages fluently and another dozen moderately well. I've memorized entire books, know advanced mathematics, and can put together an engine as efficiently as any engineer. I can create poisons and antidotes, have a thorough understanding of medicine and the workings of the human body. I've traveled across Europe and through parts of Asia and America. I can dance as well as any gentleman, recite poetry, and play the violin. Do you want me to go on?" It wasn't boastful, but matter of fact; as if he wanted me to know that he was more than a killing machine, more than his nickname of Death. As if he needed me to know. That only made me ache for him more.

"Your catalog of skills is very impressive," I whispered. "I feel rather provincial now."

He clicked his tongue and unclenched his fists. "That wasn't my intention. Forgive me."

"It's all right." I wanted to smile to let him know it didn't matter, but he wouldn't look at me. It was best to return to the topic of the ministry again. Safer. "The committee are still wary of magic and the supernatural, on the whole," I said. "But you don't seem to be. Why is that?"

He cleared his throat. "I mentioned before that I've observed some people who possess powers. They were all harmless, good folk, and I had no reason to fear them or worry that they wanted to take over the country."

"They were not the dark forces the seer spoke of?"

"Not in the least."

I rose and bobbed my head. "Thank you, Mr. Fitzroy. I appreciate your candor. I won't tell a soul what you've told me."

"I know you won't." He rose too. "Gus and Seth will be busy tonight," he added. "So there's something I need you to do for me."

"Would you like me to clean your rooms?"

"Nothing like that. Can you check my tailcoat to see that it's in good order? It's been some time since I wore it. My formal shirt will need starching too."

It took a few moments for my dull brain to realize he was talking about the clothes he would wear to the ball. "You're accepting Lady Harcourt's friend's invitation?"

"You seem surprised."

"I didn't think it your sort of thing."

"It's not."

"Then why are you going?"

"The answer matters to you," he said flatly.

"Yes. No!" I sighed. "I'm curious as to why you would go if you think you'll hate it. Is it because Lady Harcourt wishes it?"

One dark brow lifted slowly then lowered again. "No," he said as he walked away. "Because people I want to see will be there."

"Your family," I murmured, surprising myself. My mind was leaping in all directions, and I wasn't entirely sure if I believed what I'd said or was merely throwing it into the mix to gauge is reaction.

And he did react. He stopped suddenly and turned to face me. I gulped.

"I…I'm sorry." I waved the polishing cloth in dismissal. "You're a gentleman, so I assume your family must be gently bred too and would perhaps attend balls. That's all I meant."

"I told you my mother was a pauper."

"And your father?"

"I was never informed who he was." With his hands clasped behind him, he strolled out of the parlor.

I watched him go, a curious feeling in my chest. It was partly sorrow for the little, lonely boy he'd once been, but it was mostly a sense of triumph. I'd realized something during our exchange—I'd begun to decipher the small cues he sometimes gave away without realizing it. It might be a twist of his mouth, a quirk of his eyebrow, or hardening of the muscles in his jaw. Or it could be an abrupt stop and a defiant, challenging glare—as he'd just given me. A glare that dared me to tell him what I suspected. What I did know now from those minute cues was that I'd been right—his family would be at the ball tomorrow night. His father's side of the family, that was. Just because Lincoln claimed never to have been told who'd fathered him didn't mean he hadn't found out by some other means. He was resourceful. If he wanted to discover something, I had no doubt that he could.