A creeping feeling spread through my body. “Lucy, I haven’t a clue what you are talking about.”
She took a deep breath, and when they came, her words were quiet and careful. “Remember at the seamstress, when I told you about finding some disturbing documents about Papa’s business? It was letters, Juliet, in a locked drawer of Papa’s desk. There were no names used, only codes, but I recognized Papa’s handwriting. I learned to forge his writing years ago to sign bank checks. I’m positive it was his.”
Suddenly I knew exactly what she was referring to. Edward had come to London with a handful of letters written to Father from a colleague whose identity was secret. He’d suspected a dozen men—including Lucy’s father.
“He was right,” I muttered to myself, and then stood up so quickly the flowers on the table quaked. “It’s your father,” I said, louder. “In the letters, your father calls himself the King’s Man, doesn’t he?”
“Yes,” she said, looking confused. “How did you know that?”
My mind spun frantically to grasp what this all meant. I was relieved it wasn’t the professor, but Lucy’s father . . . If I knew anything, it was how terrible it was to fear and distrust your own father. “Because you’re not the first person to tell me about the letters. What do they say?”
Her frown deepened. “Business transactions, mostly. Receipts and bank account numbers. A few things that made no sense, like a list of the books in the Bible. The letters mentioned experimentation in passing, and other details I didn’t understand at the time. An assistant named Montgomery, and servants with strange names. Balthazar, I think, like from Shakespeare. The letters came from an alias called Paracelsus.”
“Paracelsus,” I repeated. “An old alchemist. Father had his book on his bookshelves.”
Memories came back to me of father’s beast-men, the strangely named servants Lucy was describing. Balthazar, Ajax, little Cymbeline. What a fool I’d been, thinking Father would limit his sights to a single island. He had been too arrogant for that. Of course he’d want the world to know of the science he’d uncovered.
“Were there any scientific papers with the letters? Diagrams, notations, that sort of thing?”
She shook her head. “No. The letters reference research he sent, but Papa must have kept those in a different place.” She leaned against the dresser, stunned. “I thought our fathers only knew each other because our mothers had been friends,” she stammered.
I shook my head, thinking of the photograph hanging in the hallways of King’s College of Medical Research. “Your father and mine were old colleagues. They belonged to a professional association called the King’s Club.”
“I’ve heard Papa speak of it, but only vaguely. He isn’t an academic. Most of his business is in rail and shipping and investing. . . .”
I could see her mind spinning as she tried to draw the connections, but I already had. All the supplies, and ships, and fine china—I’d assumed Father had a secret bank account somewhere to pay for it all, even though at the time he disappeared, our debtors told us Father was nearly bankrupt.
“He was investing,” I said. “He was investing in my father’s research. Have you told anyone about those letters? The police?”
She laughed bitterly. “With Inspector Newcastle as my suitor? He’d never arrest the man he hoped would be his future father-in-law, and the letters alone don’t prove anything. I only thought them suspicious because of the large amounts of money sent overseas. Until you told me your story and I matched up the names and details, I didn’t realize your father was the one receiving the letters.”
Her hand fell on the green silk dress on the bed beside her. “If Papa was involved in the terrible things your father was doing, how do we know he isn’t doing them too? Taking animals and cutting them open, teaching them to speak, combining them with human blood . . .” She looked as though she’d aged a year in the last ten minutes.
“Does he have a laboratory?” I asked.
“No—he’s never shown an ounce of interest in science. But he’s often gone for business for days at a time. I don’t know where he goes or what he’s doing.”
Lucy stood, pacing, all of this information too much to handle. A knock came at the door, and then Molly’s soft voice.
“Miss Lucy? Did you need help with your hair?”
I opened the door a crack and told her we’d attend to our own hair. Guests would start arriving soon. We couldn’t stop the masquerade from happening. The partygoers would come, and Edward might arrive among them, masked and dangerous, and pleading again for my forgiveness.
I ran my fingers down the red silk dress hanging on the screen. Could I really put it on and attend the ball as though nothing was the matter? Everything was the matter. The very roof we were under sheltered my father’s colleague—and there was no telling what he intended to do with the information my father had sent him.