The doctor’s choice of eating establishment proved ideal. The dining room was cozy, with a dozen or so tables, glowing gas lamps, a toasty fireplace and surprisingly attractive brocade wallpaper. For a moment, Cynda forgot she was in the East End.
Even more important, the food proved plentiful and remarkably tasty. Her nausea abated for the moment, she ate heartily through the roast beef, potatoes, crusty bread and sticky toffee pudding.
Finishing off the dessert, Cynda resisted the temptation to lick her fingers. She pointedly ignored the giraffe sitting in the corner of the dining hall clad in a cutaway coat with a top hat nestled between its long ears. If it were really there, the Victorians would be serving it tea.
You have quite an appetite, Miss Lassiter, the doctor observed, dabbing with a napkin in an attempt to obscure a smile.
I always have. My family said I’m like a shrew: I can eat my body weight every day.
I see, he replied, his amusement clearly growing. I can’t quite picture you with pointed nose and a tail.
She twitched her nose, and that set him to chuckling. Did you know that some cultures believe that having a shrew in your house means you’ll come into money?
Really? Then perhaps I should have you visit my clinic. How is it you know about such customs? Alastair asked politely.
I read a lot, Cynda said. Have you tried to find funding for your clinic? she asked, deftly shuttling the conversation in his direction.
He sighed and put down his fork. Alas, yes. Money is difficult to come by. Donors prefer larger facilities than the clinic Daniel and I have created.
And if you had adequate money? she asked after a sip of tea.
Alastair leaned forward, his brown eyes suddenly ablaze at her question. We would add more doctors and include newer methods of treatment. I envision a dispensary where we would hand out medicines on the spot. I would like to engage a doctor to visit those too ill to come to the clinic. And I would—
He stopped abruptly and leaned back in his seat, the fire draining away. Picking up the fork, he shook his head. I’m just dreaming.
Dreams are what keep us alive, doctor, she said.
That earned her an intense look. What is your dream, Miss Lassiter, if I may be so bold to ask?
Cynda puzzled on that for a time. To find a place that feels like home. That was the heart of it. She was always the stranger.
The doctor raised an eyebrow, the fork in his hand forgotten.
Certainly you feel at peace with your family.
No, not really. I don’t feel at home anywhere. No matter the century. My family and I live in two different worlds. They have their lives; I have mine.
Do you have siblings?
An older brother.
When she didn’t elaborate, the doctor took the hint. Then I hope you find your very own place, Miss Lassiter. To her surprise, he hadn’t laughed at her, but appeared to comprehend the loneliness inside her. No doubt, he had his own.
Call me Jacynda, she said.
Alastair.
They studied each other for a time. The bruise on his cheek was darker now, though it didn’t seem to hurt his looks.
I’m sorry for hitting you, though I can plead diminished capacity at the time.
I’ve been struck before, but never by such a fine-looking woman.
The compliment caught her off guard; she poured more cream into her tea to cover her self-consciousness. I do need a favor.
He nodded knowingly. As I suspected; this meal was not solely to repay me for accompanying you tonight. Does your favor involve that pair who were loitering at the end of New Castle Street?
They were paying far more attention to me than I liked.
Perhaps it was because you are a truly handsome woman, the doctor replied.
I honestly think you need glasses.
No, my eyesight is fine. Perhaps your self-esteem needs adjustment.
Zing! Too close to home. She moved on. Actually, I need to find someone. He was last seen in the East End.
Professor Turner?
No, I’ve found him and…ah…delivered my uncle’s message.
There is someone else.
Alastair eyebrow arched. For a missing person, I would recommend you consult the police. They’ll no doubt be able to assist you.
No cops, she said firmly.
His frown deepened. Is this person in trouble with the law?
No, not as such.
He leaned forward, dropping his voice. Who is this person to you?
She hesitated for a second and then blurted out, He’s my lover.
There was a brief passage of chagrin over the doctor’s face, and then it dissolved, replaced by an expression she found hard to translate. He looked at her empty plate and then gave a half nod to himself as if he’d worked out some puzzle.
I have someone who knows the East End intimately, he said, his voice clipped. I’ll send him to you tomorrow.
Perfect.
The doctor abruptly rose, dropping his napkin on the table.
It’s time we were heading toward the boarding house.
She dusted the crumbs off her skirt as she rose. Is there something wrong?
Nothing at all, Miss Lassiter.
She eyed him as he headed toward the door. He’d gone from warm and jovial to chilly and formal in a heartbeat.
All because I said I had a lover.
The pair inside the restaurant appeared to be getting on splendidly. They were leaning toward each other, engaged in animated conversation.
You never cease to surprise me, my friend, Keats murmured, peering in the establishment’s front window.
Shaking his head in amazement, he returned to his scrutiny of the evening paper, skimming the newsprint for an overview of events in the East End. It was the Chief Inspector’s technique; search for the little bits, and then weave them into a bigger picture. A missing carriage and a team of horses might not seem that important—at least to anyone but the owner. However, couple that loss with shovels, pick-axes and rope, all stolen on the same day, and new possibilities came into play. Just that sort of thing had happened last summer. Utilizing seemingly unrelated scraps of information, Fisher had captured a gang of Russian anarchists who had been busily tunneling into a silversmith’s shop seeking the wherewithal to overthrow the Czar. Their arrest proved a feather in the Chief Inspector’s cap. Keats wisely took note.
Tipping on his toes, he peered inside the window for another quick look. Time was running short, but he had no desire to interrupt. His friend so rarely dined out, let alone with a woman.
Ah, excellent, he said as Alastair abruptly rose to his feet. I won’t have to fetch you. He leaned closer to the window, puzzled.
The dynamics had changed. Up until a moment ago, the couple appeared to be getting on nicely. Now the chill of a crisp winter’s day danced between them.
Oh, lord, what did you do? Keats muttered, shaking his head.
Leave it to Alastair to mess things up. He dropped back on his heels and shifted the paper in his hands.
His friend spied him as the pair exited the building. A glower came his way. What the devil are you doing here? Alastair demanded.
Keats delivered a polite nod and then pointedly shifted his attention to the lady. Folding the newspaper, he tucked it under an arm and removed his hat.
Good evening, ma’am. I’m Jonathon Keats, he said with a bow. She was thinner than he’d originally surmised, but well proportioned. An aristocratic face, complemented by light-brown hair and hazel eyes. Quite a striking woman.
Good evening, she replied. I’m Jacynda Lassiter.
Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Lassiter, Keats replied. Very pleased. Where have you been hiding this one, my friend?
While they performed the niceties, Alastair fumed. Grudgingly required to move away from the restaurant’s doorway to accommodate newcomers, he demanded, How did you find me?
I saw you and the lady on the street. Keats lowered his voice.
I need to speak with you privately.
Now is not the time.
On the contrary. A particular…situation has arisen.
Alastair’s glare withered, as if he’d divined the reason for Keats’ presence. He swung toward his companion. Please allow me a moment to determine what this person wants. The lady nodded and took herself a short distance away.
This person? Alastair made him sound like an irksome beggar.
Keats ground his teeth in annoyance.
The doctor turned back to him. What is this about? he asked, keeping his voice low.
They wish to speak to you.
In regard to what? Brittle anger flickered along every word.
In lieu of an answer, Keats pulled an envelope from inside his jacket. As he handed it to the doctor, he whispered an address.
They expect to see you sometime before ten this evening.
I’m not some damned lackey, Alastair growled.
I know that. However, you have little choice in the matter.
What if I refuse their summons?
Keats had anticipated that tack. They will see that your clinic is closed before the end of the week.
His friend blanched. Good God, what kind of monsters are they?
The kind accustomed to having their every whim fulfilled.
Keats cleared his throat and added, Be sensible. Go see them.
Just don’t expect them to play fair.
His friend’s eyes narrowed. You know what this is about, don’t you?
Yes, but I am enjoined from speaking of it further.
Another glower that mutated into a scowl. Alastair stuffed the unopened envelope into his coat and checked on his dining companion. She’d purchased a paper of her own and was concentrating on the front page, oblivious to their conversation. Do me the honor of escorting Miss Lassiter to the boarding house, will you? he asked. I do not want her walking the streets alone.
Keats brightened instantly. Most certainly. She’s quite handsome.
The scowl grew. Yes, she is. However, Miss Lassiter has a tendency to strike people for no particular reason.
Is that where the bruise came from? I was wondering about that.
A glare. She is not well grounded, so do not try to take advantage of her person.
Keats studied his friend closely. Had he just been warned off?
She seems quite sane to me.
No doubt to you she would, was the curt reply.
Is that jealousy I hear? How remarkable. As always, I shall be a gentleman, Keats replied solemnly. After another quick glance at the lady, he returned to the bigger issue at hand. Do be careful, Alastair. They’re not thinking clearly at this moment. You’re a perfect scapegoat.
All the more reason to settle this matter once and for all.
The young man escorting her to the boarding house was the antithesis of Alastair Montrose. A little shorter than the doctor, Jonathon had dark hair anointed with a modest amount of macassar oil, sparkling eyes and a precisely trimmed moustache that lightly curved upward at the ends. His attitude bordered on the outrageous. He’d immediately insisted she call him by his first name. No topic proved too personal, as if he were from her time.
He harbored a spark of life that seemed to kindle the night air.
She knew the type; he was like Chris, a Roman candle that would make a suitable lover, at least until his attention wandered. Still, Jonathon was a pleasant change from the mercurial physician.
How long have you known Alastair? he probed.
A few days. We met at the boarding house. He treated me for a travel-related illness.
I see. He’s quite a good physician, I gather. I am surprised you got him out for a meal. He doesn’t dine out often. Too tied to his work, Keats remarked, shaking his head in disapproval. You’d think he was a monk instead of a doctor.