Page 4 of The King of Whitechapel (Victorian Outcasts #7)

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E LIZABETH’S HEART GAVE a solid kick of sheer terror when she stared at her reflection in the mirror the next morning.

A large blue-and-black bruise marred her forehead, the afternoon gown she’d worn to see Christopher was still wet and wrinkled, and a tiny burn darkened the hem of the skirt.

How was she going to explain the bruise and the ruined gown to her parents? More importantly, how was she going to explain to herself the riot of emotions that had bothered her since last night?

The image of Christopher in the bathtub with his eyes closed, his head reclined, his strong neck exposed, and his slick, wet skin would remain forever in her memories even if she didn’t want it to. No, she didn’t want a half-naked Christopher in her mind, but he had been, quite vividly so, and there was little she could do.

He was handsome, no point in denying that, but as for his attitude, she wasn’t sure how she felt. Not to mention the questionable reason he’d been expelled from school. And once again, she hadn’t learnt anything about him.

The maid entered, carrying a pile of fresh linens. She frowned at the discarded afternoon dress. “Your gown is wet, my lady.”

“Yes, I dropped a glass of water on it last night.” Elizabeth sat at her vanity.

The maid’s eyebrows knit together likely because she’d brushed the gown and put it aside in the armoire yesterday before Elizabeth had taken it out again.

“I’ll take care of it. What happened to you, my lady?” the maid asked, standing behind her to comb her hair.

“I fell.” That was true.

“Heavens.” The maid frowned again, staring at the bruise. “It must have been a painful fall.”

“Quite painful.” And embarrassing. Not her finest moment. “Will the face powder cover it?”

“We can try. I can style your hair in a different way as well.”

“Great.”

Not so great.

Half an hour later, after breakfast, she couldn’t convince her mother to stop asking questions about the bruise. Layers of face powder and a curtain of curls weren’t enough to deceive Mother’s keen gaze. The sunlight on that crisp morning didn’t help either.

“I don’t understand how you got such a large bruise,” Mother said for the umpteenth time.

Elizabeth rubbed her arms, walking along the path in the garden. Frost covered the ground, making it slippery and threatening to cause her to trip again, and she didn’t need another bruise.

“It’s chilly,” she said. “Can’t we forgo our morning walk today? The air is freezing, and it might start snowing again.”

“Why didn’t you call for help? That bruise is too big for a simple fall. You must have hit your head hard enough to have lost consciousness. And you’re quite pale.”

Botheration. “The bruise didn’t seem that terrible last night.”

Mother shook her head. “I will send for the physician.” She narrowed her gaze, staring at a point behind Elizabeth. “There he is.”

“The physician? That was quick.”

Mother strode past her, heading towards the cypress trees where Christopher sat on a sunny bench. Elizabeth’s pulse sped up as she followed her mother. Try as she might not to think of him, another vision of him in the bathtub came unbidden to her mind. To her defence, she had never, ever seen a shirtless man. So, of course, she found the novelty interesting. All normal.

“Countess.” He rose when Mother stopped in front of him. He gave a quick bow as if performing it only because he had to.

Elizabeth gave him a curt nod, her knees weakening. Last night, she should have told him not to mention anything to her parents.

“I need a word,” Mother said. “The maid told me she found the Hessian carpet in your room half burnt and the floor wet. Would you care to give me an explanation?”

Elizabeth trapped her bottom lip between her teeth to stop it from quivering. That was it. She would have to confess to her stupid decision to see him last night and face the consequences, which would likely be living in Spencer Hall for the rest of the year, studying mediaeval wars.

Christopher didn’t flinch. “I accidentally dropped a candle but put out the fire immediately after.”

He lied for her. She hadn’t expected that. “But?—”

“Why didn’t you call a footman?” Mother said.

He shrugged. “It didn’t seem necessary, my lady.”

“So it was an accident.” Mother’s tone lacked kindness but made up for it with suspicion.

Elizabeth had never heard her mother using that sharp, accusatory tone, not even with a servant.

“Don’t you believe me, my lady?” He lifted his chin, his icy blue eyes glinting.

“I simply find it difficult to believe it’s all a coincidence.”

“I don’t understand.”

Mother stepped in front of her as if to protect her. “You’re forced to leave your school because … of certain circumstances, and the next thing that happens, a carpet in my house catches fire.”

“I honestly don’t see the connection.”

Mother glowered. “Then allow me to be blunt. Are you an arsonist in addition to being a thief?”

His glacial eyes turned colder. The temperature must have dropped a few degrees. “I’m not a thief, much less an arsonist. It was an accident.”

“I’m not sure I believe you,” Mother said.

“You’re entitled to your absolutely wrong opinion,” he gritted out.

Mother gasped. “How dare you!”

Elizabeth couldn’t let him take the blame for something he hadn’t done. His situation in her house was already precarious without the added crime.

She cleared her throat. “Actually?—”

“Elizabeth,” Mother said, raising a commanding finger. “Please don’t get involved.”

“But I already am. See, I?—”

“You should listen to your mother.” He shook his head.

“Do not tell my daughter what she should or shouldn’t do!” Mother said.

He shrugged. “I wouldn’t dare. Besides, she seems perfectly capable of making her own decisions.”

“The way you speak to my daughter is outrageous.” Mother gripped Elizabeth’s hand. “I hope that no more accidents will happen while you’re staying here, Blackwood.”

“I hope the same, my lady.” He bowed, keeping his gaze on Elizabeth and silently warning her.

“And refrain from taking promenades in the garden from now on. If you need a walk, go to the forest. Let’s go.” Mother led her away. “Honestly.”

“Mother, that’s harsh.” She was ignored. She glanced behind her. He was still staring at her. “Perhaps he told the truth, and it was an accident.”

Mother didn’t slow her pace until they were inside the house. “I told you not to get involved with him. Don’t intervene ever again. Don’t encourage him. Don’t stand close to him. His kind can’t help itself.”

“What do you mean?”

Mother was flustered. “Many experts claim illegitimate sons are particularly prone to attacking young girls, being violent, and lying. And they have this … inappropriate appetite that never diminishes, if you understand what I mean. Give him the opportunity, and he’ll attack you.”

“Nonsense.”

“It’s in the illegitimate sons’ nature. They can’t help themselves. And he’s also an arsonist.”

“But I started the fire,” she blabbered out, tired of all the poppycock.

Mother handed her coat to the maid absentmindedly. “Your attempt at helping him is pathetic, and, quite frankly, I don’t understand it. Go upstairs. Your class is about to start.”

“Mother, I’m serious.” Pointless conversation. “Mother!”

Mother had gone already, firing orders to the housekeeper.

Before going upstairs, Elizabeth glanced out of the window. Christopher was sitting with his shoulders hunched and his elbows propped on his knees. She couldn’t see his face, but a sense of loneliness radiated from him.

He might pretend he didn’t care about what Mother had said, but being continuously mistreated must take a toll on him. And if he were as dangerous as Mother believed, he would have attacked her last night. He’d had plenty of time and the opportunity to do so. Instead, he’d been kind to her. And he’d lied to protect her.

Finally, she learnt something about him. He was kind and honourable.

If focusing on history had been hard yesterday, it was twice as hard that day.

Guilt gnawed at Elizabeth. She’d tried to tell the truth, but she couldn’t deny her cowardice had played a part in her failure at being believed. The least she could do was to apologise to Christopher and thank him for having covered her mistake.

“Elizabeth, you aren’t listening,” Miss Martin said, sitting in front of her.

“Apologies.” She caressed the bruise.

A bump had also swollen, and the skin was sensitive to the touch.

Miss Martin lowered the book. “Is it the bruise? Goodness, you must have hit your head really hard.”

“I did. My head hurts, to be honest.”

“Why don’t you lie down? We’ll resume later if you feel well enough, or tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Miss Martin. I need some rest.” After she talked to Christopher.

Elizabeth headed straight to the guest wing. Her breath turned into mist in the long, wide corridor, and the sound of her footsteps echoed off the domed ceiling. She paused in front of a frosted window. In the garden, snowflakes drifted down slowly.

She rubbed her cold hands. The guest wing had a different climate than the rest of the house. The marble floor didn’t help keep the warmth, and with only one room occupied, the servants hadn’t lit any fireplaces.

She knocked on Christopher’s door. “Christopher? It’s me, Elizabeth. May I come in?”

No reply. She inched the door open. Surely, after what had happened between them, he wouldn’t be surprised if she entered uninvited. But the bedroom was empty.

She grimaced at the dark stain on the floor. The flames had marred the wooden planks as a permanent reminder of her shock at seeing Christopher in the bathtub. The study was empty as well.

Since he wasn’t exactly welcome in the house, he had to be outside. She looked out of the window. The snow was falling faster as the wind picked up speed, shaking the trees. But through the white flakes, she spotted Christopher in his long dark coat, heading towards the path that led to the village. She wouldn’t have a better opportunity to talk to him. They’d be alone, and officially, she was in her room.

After quickly grabbing her scarf and coat, she avoided the main corridor to exit from a French window opening to the garden. She sped up once the evergreen hedges blocked the view of the house, but the snow made the ground slippery.

After she rounded a corner, the path to the village stretched in front of her, white, silent, and empty. With his long legs, he must have walked beyond the curve of the road.

Clenching the lapels of her coat, she soldiered on. She was getting more distant from the house than she’d planned, but she needed to see him.

The strong wind made it difficult to keep her eyes open, and the snow was falling in earnest now, thick white sheets that blurred the view. Her feet were numb, and she was halfway to the village by the time she spotted a lonely dark figure ahead. She forced her legs to speed up, but he’d taken a lateral path that headed north towards the small lake where the sheep gathered in summer. If he wasn’t heading to the village, where then?

“Christopher!” She waved a gloved hand, running towards him. “Christopher.”

He stopped in the middle of the snowed path and spun towards to face her. She sped up in his direction.

The snow and wind agreed with him. The white expanse exalted the glacial blue of his eyes and turned his blond hair into pure silver, and the wind ruffled his tendrils. But his expression wasn’t exactly friendly. The closer she came to him, the harder he frowned.

“You.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “What is it now?”

She breathed hard. Each inhale brought icy air down to her lungs. “No need to be so sour. I want to talk to you.”

“Do your parents know you’re here?”

“No. They think I’m resting in my bedroom.”

“Then you should leave.” He turned around and marched on.

“Wait.” She had to stride to keep up with him. “I’ll return to the house, but I want to apologise for last night and to thank you for protecting me. Why did you lie?”

He stopped walking. “My reputation is already terrible. There was no need to ruin yours as well.”

“But now my parents believe you set our carpet on fire.”

“I’m the ducal bastard. Everyone thinks I’m a rogue anyway, no matter what I do.”

She cringed. “Would you please stop saying that word? It upsets me.”

He shot her a glare. “Apologies if I’m hurting your feelings.”

She rolled her eyes. “I mean, that word is insulting towards you as well.”

“I’m a bastard. I’m not scared of a word. Besides, everyone keeps saying it.”

“If you really have to be so crass, then do go on.”

“Fine.” He held up a hand. “I appreciate your concern, but you needn’t worry about me.”

The wind grew in strength, howling through the treetops. Snowflakes slapped her face, and she had to close her eyes against them. Goodness. Even the inside of her nostrils was frozen.

“Go home, Elizabeth,” Christopher yelled over the wind. “The snowstorm is getting worse.”

“Come with me.”

“I need to go somewhere else first.”

“It’s freezing. In a moment, the path will be buried under the snow. You won’t go far.” Her teeth chattered, and tremors went up and down her back. Her legs were numb, too. “Let’s go.”

The tip of his nose was red, and his breath turned into fog that the wind slapped promptly away.

He gazed around, the gusts ruffling his hair. “You’re wasting precious time.”

“I won’t go without you. Seriously. The temperature is dropping too fast. You’ll freeze if you don’t go home now.”

His eyelashes were covered in frost. “All right. I’ll come with you.”

Except there wasn’t anywhere to go. The wind was too strong. It was a force shoving Elizabeth back at each step, a freight train hitting her chest. The loud howling of the wind hissed in her ears.

The cold was paralysing, and the snow piled up too quickly on the ground for them to wade through it at a decent pace. She wasn’t even sure if they were following the road.

She clenched the lapels of her coat together, but the freezing gusts of wind sneaked underneath her clothes anyway, stealing her warmth.

“Watch out!” Christopher grabbed her arm and pulled her back before a tall tree crashed down on the path, lifting a wall of fresh snow.

She closed her eyes as snow covered her and slipped under the collar of her shirt. A chilling trail went down her back. She didn’t feel her lips, cheeks, and hands anymore.

“This weather isn’t normal.” He wrapped his arms around her, and she was too tired not to find the closeness comforting. “We’ll never make it to Spencer Hall,” he shouted over the wind. “My house is closer.”

“Your house?”

“Come.” He took her hand firmly and ploughed through the snow at a steady pace.

She couldn’t see anything through the storm aside from his back, and keeping her eyes fully open hurt. Even her tears were likely turning into ice.

He trudged wearily through the snow, pausing now and then, until they arrived at an old cottage. She couldn’t see much of the place aside from a white wall and a diamond window. Still gripping her hand, he unlocked the front door using a key he produced from his pocket.

“Almost there.” He led her inside and had to shoulder the door to shut it against the gale.

Complete darkness fell into the house. She didn’t feel any difference in terms of temperature, and all the questions she meant to ask were frozen, too. At least the wind wasn’t a problem anymore.

He stared at her with concern, holding her cold hand. “Let me light a fire.”