A Scandal in Battersea (Elemental Masters #12)(66)
And when he rose, so did she. “I’m really just here because my mother and her bridesmaids are having their fittings, and I was told I was in the way,” she said frankly. “Tea sounds lovely.”
He offered her his arm, and she took it, and they made their way down to the lobby, weaving a path through the people who had gathered at the refreshment counter for lemon squash for the children, and for the adults, something much stronger. They claimed their cloaks at the cloakroom and left through the nearest exit. “Why were you in the way?” he asked holding the door open for her. “Aren’t you in the bridal party?”
She made a face. Now that she was in daylight he saw she had brown hair, brown eyes, and a face that resembled a very eager rabbit. He fancied she was trifle shortsighted, as there was a line between her brows that made him think she squinted a lot. But there was nothing timid or rabbit-like about her answer. “My mother would rather people not be reminded that she is old enough to have a daughter who came out last year,” Katherine said frankly, and with more than a touch of acid in her tone. “I have been told to sit in the back of the church and not draw attention to myself. For this, I am being rewarded with the liberty to do anything I care to between waking and sundown, every day until the wedding. And, possibly after. If women were allowed to attend University, I’d be perfectly contented.” The implication was that she considered attending theater matinees and browsing bookshops to be very thin fare compared to a University education. Oh, one of those. She probably wants women to have the vote as well.
It was snowing again, and the fat, white flakes starred her beaver cloak and his woolen one. “Hence, Hamlet?” he responded.
“I should have chosen Iolanthe,” she admitted. “I—”
They were about half a block from the theater, and that was when he felt the entity moving through him. His hands and his insides went as cold as the street pavement. He felt the thing brush up against his mind, and felt his gorge rise in response. Katherine’s face lost all animation, and she stopped speaking in mid-sentence. He smiled to himself, even though the entity’s touch chilled him worse than the winter wind. “Put your head down, Katherine,” he said. “Walk normally with me.”
She obeyed, and he led her down the street, taking care to keep out of the way of others to avoid attracting their attention. But the snow was in his favor; people hurried along, eager to get into shelter, and not paying any attention at all to what was at first glance a perfectly ordinary, well-dressed, if a trifle bohemian, couple.
Alf had parked the coach down an alley, precisely where he said he would be. Together they lifted Katherine inside, and Alexandre followed. He closed the doors and pulled the shades—then, taking no chances, administered the chloroform and bound and gagged her. Alf had done some work on the coach seats, adding stout straps under the cushions and bolted to the floor so that their prizes could be strapped in for added security. When Katherine was nicely trussed up to his liking, he laid her on the seat opposite his and buckled her in, around her chest, waist and legs. Then he tucked a rug around her, to make her look like a bundle of goods he had just bought. Just in case, for some unknown reason, someone got a glance inside the coach.
Alf stopped once, and after an interval, tapped on the door and opened it, handing him a paper of hot chestnuts, a meat pie that was also still warm, and a bottle of beer. “If you’ve got the same, and we’re parked out of the way, you might as well join me,” he told his man, and moved over on the seat to give him room. Alf was nothing loath.
“Snow moight make it ’ard t’catch our second coney t’night, guv,” he said, taking a huge bite of his pie and following it with half the beer. “Oi ’ad me a ideer. Could go out alone an’ snatch a beggar-brat.”
Alexandre followed his example. He had to hand it to Alf; the man knew the best places to get ready-made food in all of London. This was a good meaty pie, with just enough gravy to keep it from being dry. “Let’s give West Ham a try anyway,” Alexandre advised. “If we haven’t got one by full dark, we can take this one back to the house and I’ll guard her while you look for another option.”
But Alf was right. The snow kept everyone inside. By the time they got to West Ham in the dusk, there was no sign of anyone on the street—and Alexandre soon realized that if they drove the coach through the borough for much longer, it was going to be conspicuous. With not a single other vehicle out, the coach stood out like a fish in a flowerbed. After they’d traversed up one street and down another, and he’d given Katherine another dose of chloroform, he tapped on the roof. Alf opened the roof hatch to peer down. In the last light, he was little more than a black silhouette against the charcoal sky.
“We oughter—” Alf began.
“Go home, or people will start to notice us, I know,” Alexandre completed for him. “You were right. We’ll try something else. Maybe something will turn up on the way home.”
With a grunt of agreement, Alf closed the hatch and clucked to the horse, who resumed his plodding pace. Alexandre sat back in his seat and pondered several things.
First . . . how many of these “witnesses” did the thing need? He hoped it was three; three was the first number generally associated with magic. Three wishes, misfortune comes in threes, Death knocks three times . . . somehow, though, he doubted it. Five would be more likely. Or seven. He hoped fervently it wasn’t nine; five would be hard, seven harder still, and nine? The police would be frantic, the papers would have got hold of it somewhere between five and seven, and there would be guards and police everywhere that one of the girls had disappeared from. He’d have to leave London entirely in order to find victims.