My heart pounded. I knew, on some deep level, that it was madness to even be talking to Edward. I also knew that, madness or not, Edward’s and my fates were tied together. I was the one threatening to expose him now, but our roles could so easily be reversed.
He took out his gold pocket watch and flipped it open and shut in indecision. At last he closed it and said, “Where?”
We needed someplace public enough so that I would be safe alone with him, yet private enough to speak intimately. My mind went back to the island, he and I behind the waterfall, sharing secrets and even a stolen kiss. My cheeks went warm with the memory.
“The Royal Botanical Gardens at Kensington,” I whispered. “The greenhouse. We’ll each leave separately and meet there within an hour.”
He nodded.
The grandfather clock in the study chimed. Aunt Edith stood up and brushed the crumbs off her skirt, missing half of them. “Two o’clock already. I’ve got a dinner tonight at the club I must get ready for. Henry, dear, it’s been a pleasure. Won’t you walk me out?”
Edward’s eyes met mine. We were accomplices in this lie now, for better or worse. “I’ll be saying good-bye then, Lucy. It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Moreau.”
I hesitated a breath, just long enough to remember his false name.
“And you, Mr. Jakyll.”
TEN
THE PARLOR DOOR REMAINED open behind them, leaving only the sound of the ticking hallway clock. Henry Jakyll. Edward Prince. One and the same.
“I’m glad she’s left,” Lucy said, coming to stand next to me at the window. “I think Aunt Edith only ever comes to tea to chastise me for all the things I’ve done wrong.” She hunted in the fruit bowl on the side table and selected a grape. “What did you think of Henry?” she asked slyly, popping the grape into her mouth. “He’s just awful, isn’t he? Didn’t I tell you?”
“Yes, awful,” I said carefully, glancing out the window to try to catch a glimpse of him as he left. “Not your type at all. Inspector Newcastle is more attractive anyway, don’t you think?”
She frowned, but at that moment I glimpsed Edward and Lucy’s aunt stepping out of the house below, where he helped her into her cabriolet and then started down the street at a fast pace, heading to the botanical gardens for our rendezvous. I looked at the sky, where the sun was already casting shadows. Two, maybe three hours before sunset. Damn these short winter days. I’d certainly not be able to meet Edward and still have time to rush back home for dinner at the professor’s. He’d be beside himself with worry when I didn’t show up.
Lucy plucked another grape, eyeing me strangely. She changed her mind and set it back down in the bowl. “The truth is, and I know this must sound absurd coming from me, but I actually think I might grow to admire him. Not much, of course. Only a tiny bit. Perhaps it’s just stuffy in here.”
I shot her a look. I couldn’t imagine anything that chilled my blood more than the idea of Lucy enamored of a boy with a monstrous other half who had already killed four people in London—for me. I clutched her hand suddenly. “He seems a bore to me. I think you should forget him. Really. Now I must go, Lucy. I’m so sorry.”
Her eyes went wide. “You’ve only just arrived. I thought we might be able to talk, here, while we’re alone. Didn’t you want to speak to me privately?” She leaned in, her voice dropping. “I have things to tell you, too. I’m not certain Papa’s been fair in his business dealings, and when I mentioned it to Mother, she didn’t seem to care.”
“Blast, I’m sorry, I really can’t stay to hear about it right now. I’m a terrible friend, I know, but I really must go.” I paused in the doorway. “Oh, and I forgot to tell you—Inspector Newcastle is going to propose. I thought you should know. And I really don’t think he’s that terrible; perhaps you should give him a chance.”
I squeezed her hand and hurried from the room, down the stairs, waving to Clara as I ran out into the street.
Guilt gripped me for leaving her so suddenly, but part of this was for Lucy. I could hardly explain that her suitor—who she actually fancied—had a murderous other side to him, and it was either cure him, kill him, or have her end up dead.
A chill was settling into the shadows of buildings as late afternoon approached. I turned toward the sun in the west, in the direction of the Royal Botanical Gardens, where palm trees stood like ghosts within the captive heat of the greenhouse.
A thousand places to kill. A million reasons not to trust.
I started running toward Kensington.
MY FEET ACHED BY the time I arrived. The tired-looking ticket collector glanced at his pocket watch.
“Palm House closes at sunset, the gardens at six. You haven’t but a few hours.”
“That’s all right,” I said breathlessly, shoving my coins at him. I dashed through the gardens to the bridge that stretched across the frozen lake. From there, I could see the greenhouse, where rays of light caught on the thousands of glass panels.
I felt as though I’d crossed some invisible boundary and was no longer in London. Gone were the city crowds, the smoke and the soot, the noise of carriages and yelling street vendors.
Clouds rolled in as I crossed the bridge, bringing winter’s wind and frigid temperatures. A lamplighter tipped his hat as he passed, lighting the ring of lanterns around the lake.
I took a deep breath and pushed open the Palm House’s ironwork door. A flood of warmth escaped the crack, filling my lungs with steam as I entered the domed central atrium.