A Scandal in Battersea (Elemental Masters #12)(56)

But, to his acute annoyance, as soon as they spotted him, he was surrounded by the butterflies, who begged to know his opinion of the painting of the Downs, and were the Downs like that, and did he know the artist? He realized at that moment he had made himself rather too good a target for girls like that, who were lagging behind their more fortunate sisters in the marriage market. Handsome, young, and without a sign of a wife or a fiancée, well dressed, he was exactly what they were here to find . . . it remained only for them to find out if he was titled or not, approximately how much money he had, and where it came from.

He was momentarily annoyed . . . but then decided to make the best of things, and allowed himself to be carried off with them as they continued to pretend to tour the Gallery. He had the feeling that if he let it slip, ever so slowly, that he was not in possession of a title, and his fortunes were modest, and, in fact, were due to being in trade. . . .

And within ten pictures, he managed to do just that, finishing with, “. . . and I rather fancy if you ever ventured into the kitchen, you’d see my bottles . . .” going on to describe how the lowly pressed-glass bottles and jars were made. He had never had occasion to be grateful for the many forced tours of the glass-works his father had made him take—but he was now. By the time he was finished, all the others had left him in front of a still life of slightly dyspeptic-looking vegetables crowned with a dead rabbit, with only the plain one (who he now knew was named Cynthia) still listening to him. He smiled down into her eyes, making it rather clear that he was perfectly happy with her company.

“I never knew all that, Christian,” she said (he’d used a false name, of course). “I always thought bottles were blown by people.” When she gazed up at him like that, she resembled a sad-faced hound with a pronounced overbite. Her teeth were appalling, and her chin a mere suggestion.

“Those that are for decorative use, like perfume bottles are,” he told her. “And of course, those that are artworks in and of themselves are hand-blown by master craftsmen. But good, common, practical bottles, meant to last and be used, are pressed glass, mechanically blown into molds. I’m very proud that we make things people can depend on. People so rarely value virtues like dependability, don’t you think, Miss Cynthia?”

She flushed, and gazed up into his eyes, mouth open a little. “Oh yes,” she agreed fervently. “They so seldom . . . do. . . .”

And at that moment, he had the sensation of icy, cold hands reaching through him, and taking the girl’s head between them. Her eyes glazed over, her mouth fell completely open, and it looked as if she was drunk or drugged.

“Why don’t you come along with me, my dear,” he said, taking her hand and tucking it into the crook of his arm. “Drop your head and look at the ground, so you don’t trip.” She didn’t resist and obeyed him. With her head down, and her face hidden by the brim of her hat, she couldn’t be recognized. And she didn’t resist when he drew her along with him at a brisk walk, retracing his footsteps so they wouldn’t run into that herd of inconvenient girls, heading for the entrance where Alf waited with the coach. The group she had been with probably would not miss her until they exited the Gallery, and maybe not even then.

As soon as they stepped outside the doors, Alf saw them coming and moved the coach along the line of waiting vehicles to meet them. Alexandre moved with deliberation and care, neither too fast nor too slowly, so that it looked as if he was aiding an elderly woman rather than a younger one. Under the guise of giving simple, courteous help, he practically lifted the girl into the coach. He followed her quickly and pulled the curtains down over the windows as Alf clucked to the horse and moved off.

The girl hadn’t seated herself; evidently the entity couldn’t control her that well. Instead, she was in a heap on the floor, which was just fine with Alexandre. As she lay there, unmoving, he bound her wrists and ankles, gagged her, and applied chloroform as Alf had instructed him, just in case. Then he rapped on the ceiling of the coach to let Alf know everything had proceeded according to plan.

Then he raised the curtains. The girl was out of sight, and they planned to amble along, doing nothing to excite any attention, until dusk, when they would head again to West Ham. Alf was convinced that it was a superior hunting spot, and Alexandre was inclined to agree with him.

He waited to see if the girl was going to awaken, and if she did, if the entity was still going to be in control. It was safe enough to allow her to regain consciousness now that she was gagged and restrained; even if she had been a trained fighter, the way he had her trussed up, she’d never be able to inflict the slightest amount of damage on him nor free so much as a single finger. And he was, he flattered himself, rather an expert at gagging someone so that nothing they uttered would be heard outside the confines of the coach. He’d taught Alf the right way to go about it, and neither of the first two girls they’d taken had been able to do more than utter a muffled squeak.

He did have quite a bit of practice in that sort of thing—although usually it was so that sound didn’t penetrate room walls, not coach walls.

Eventually her eyes fluttered open. And he was enormously gratified to see, first, sense, then terror in them.

She wiggled uselessly, and vague, smothered sounds emerged from her, rather than the screams she undoubtedly wanted to produce. He leaned over in the dim gloom of the coach and put a finger to his lips.