He’d dismissed his valet earlier, not wanting anyone’s eyes on him. He had to be alone as he fought against the demon whispering seductively in his ear, urging him to end the pain that was eating him alive. Take a drink.
God Almighty, he hadn’t touched a drop since he’d heard the maid had disappeared from the castle, since he’d heard that she’d resembled the first whore. Even now, he remembered the gut-clenching horror that his madness might be spreading.
How many months had he woken up, unable to recall what he’d done the night before? The yawning black stretches in his memory frightened him more than anything, and he’d submerged his growing fear with more whiskey. It was only when the whore had been found in the lake that memory had floated up like bits of flotsam, disjointed images that had sent a thrill of horror through him: big brown eyes, Cupid’s bow mouth—smiling and alive.
He’d tried desperately not to think of it. Kendra Donovan had pushed and pushed him, until he’d lost his temper. Jesus, he would have throttled her, if she hadn’t fought back. The Duke was right; he was a monster.
Yet when the maid had went missing, he hadn’t lost his memory. He’d been here, confined to his room since Kendra had nearly blinded him. A recluse. Yes, he’d been drinking, but not enough to forget. And to satisfy his own peace of mind, he’d asked Finch, who’d confirmed his presence in his bedchamber.
The maid’s disappearance had galvanized the household. It had galvanized him. He’d spent the last forty-eight hours in agony—sober agony. As a search had gone out for the maid, he’d sweated and cast up his accounts until his stomach and throat were raw. When news came that the maid’s body had been found in much the same condition as the whore in the lake, he’d been sober, and an emotion had seized him was one that he hadn’t felt in a long time—hope.
59
Kendra stared in horror at the ropes of human hair at her feet. Some had been braided and tied off with twine, she saw now. Others had simply been tied off, like hair extensions used in high-priced salons. There were dozens of them, dark brown and black except for one that was golden blond—April Duprey.
Thomas had been collecting the girls’ hair like scalps. As souvenirs?
Not exactly. The truth hit her like a punch to the gut, and she glanced at the paintbrushes scattered about. Slowly, she picked one up, staring at the soft bristles, and remembered how Thomas had appeared mesmerized as she’d thumbed the bristle. She attributed his behavior to his opium use. But now . . .
Shuddering, she dropped the paintbrush and stepped back.
Art requires sacrifice.
Kendra glanced at the canvases stacked against the far wall. Her skin crawling, she forced herself to move toward them, to drag off the dirty wool blankets. The first row was benign landscapes: the river, the forest; local scenes.
She flipped those back to reveal the second row, and these were far different from the pretty landscapes. There was nothing pretty about the ghastly images Thomas had painted, young girls shackled and screaming.
Art requires sacrifice.
She turned and ran outside, drawing in deep gulps of fresh air. Leaning over, she put her hands on her knees and tried to get a grip on the emotions swirling through her. Something flashed in her peripheral vision. She didn’t even have time to turn before pain exploded in her head, driving her to her knees.
And into darkness.
60
“Is something on your mind, my boy?”
Alec glanced at the Duke, who was studying him over the rim of a teacup. Dr. Munroe was also eyeing him, apparently finding him more interesting than the carefully ironed newspaper in his hand.
“Pardon?” Alec replied.
“You seem a bit blue-deviled. What is troubling you?”
Alec was at loss for words. What could he say? You have a woman living under your roof who is from the future—or, at least, believes that she is. In truth, Alec wasn’t entirely certain which he’d prefer. He was not a natural philosopher like his uncle. His own interests tended toward the pragmatic: business, finance, investments. Having Kendra Donovan claim she was from another time period was disturbing on a fundamental level. He damned well didn’t like the idea of . . . what had she called them? Wormholes. After all, if she could unintentionally fall into one, what would stop anyone from following suit?
He glanced uneasily at the tapestry that hid the stairwell. How many times had he used the passageway in his lifetime, first as a boy, with a boy’s natural curiosity, and later because it was the most expedient route to the Duke’s laboratory? How many times had his uncle walked that same route? What if one day they went in and never came back out? It was too incredible even to contemplate.
But he couldn’t bring himself to believe that Kendra Donovan was mad. Nor could he quite convince himself that she’d been foxed, her mind flooded with fantasy after drinking half a bottle of brandy.