He was laughing at her again. Well, technically, he wasn’t actually laughing. But he was looking at her as if he wanted to, as if he couldn’t wait for her to scramble and reverse her prior edict. Lydia gave him a firm nod instead. “That’s exactly right. I would rather bleed to death than have your hands on me.” She tucked her gloves under her arm and reached for her shawl.
He was still smiling at her. “I’ll pay my respects at your funeral.”
“I don’t want you there. If you dare come, I’ll haunt you in your sleep.”
But that only sparked a wicked gleam in his eye. He took a step closer, forcing her to tilt her head up at an unnatural angle. He leaned over her, bending his neck. And then he whispered.
“Why, Miss Charingford.” That smile of his tilted, stretching. “There’s no need to wait until you’re dead to visit my bed. In fact, I’m available right now, so long as we finish before—”
She didn’t think. She pulled back her arm and slapped him as hard as she could—slapped him so hard that she could feel the blow reverberating all the way back to her shoulder.
He rubbed his cheek and straightened. “I suppose I deserved that,” he said, somewhat ruefully. “Your pardon, Miss Charingford. I was in the wrong. I should never have spoken that way.” He looked down. “In my defense—and I know this is a weak defense—we were talking about death, and that always brings out the worst of my humor. Which, as you have no doubt discovered, is abominable to begin with. I pray that I do not one day watch you bleed to death on the streets.” His voice was solemn, and for once, that twinkle vanished from his eyes. “I hope it is not you. But it will be someone.”
For a moment, she felt a tug of sympathy. To deal with death every day, to have only humor to keep the specter of darkness at arm’s length… But then she remembered everything he had said to her—those pointed reminders that she was a fallen woman. She remembered his all-too-knowing eyes, following her across the room whenever she encountered him. She might have been able to forget her mistake for months on end were it not for him.
She wound her scarf around her neck. “Now you’ve made me regret striking you.”
“Truly?” That eyebrow rose again.
He stood close, so close that when she picked up her coat, he was able to intervene and hold it out for her. Nice of him to act the gentleman now, now when it meant that she sensed the warmth of his hands against hers, his bare fingers brushing her wrist. His touch should have been cold like his depraved, shriveled heart. Instead, a jolt of heat traveled through her.
“Truly.” She set her hat on her head and adjusted the cuffs of her coat to cover her gloves. “You see, I interrupted you before you told me how long you were giving yourself to finish the deed. I’d not have given you above thirty seconds, myself.”
His crack of laughter followed her out the door. She could hear it echoing in her mind—laughter that sounded jolly and fun, without a hint of meanness to it, the kind of laughter she would expect to hear next to the sprightly ring of Christmas bells. It wasn’t fair that Doctor Jonas Grantham of all people could laugh like that. Still, she heard it playing in her mind—saw him, his head thrown back, delighted—until the windswept streets swallowed up the sound of his merriment.
Chapter Three
IT WAS NOT TO HIS COMFORTABLE BELVOIR STREET HOME that Jonas went after the meeting. He had a much longer journey—up Fosse Road, picking his way carefully across paving stones that were slick with ice. The houses became smaller the further he went from the center of town: shoved together in a row, shrinking from three- and four-story stone affairs to squat two-story cottages fronted by brick walls that enclosed only enough room for the most meager kitchen gardens.
The only break from those small, depressing abodes was a space of dry dirt, ringed by a low stone wall. In summer, it served as a park where the children might play. In winter, with the weather so cold, it usually stood vacant. A rough structure had been erected several years ago in the middle, little more than a stage with a roof and three walls surrounded by wood benches. It was used for the occasional gathering—mostly amateur productions put on by the children. The structure surrounding the stage had been plastered over long ago, making it an unrelieved dingy white breaking up the monotony of the dirt.
Today, though, he saw a few men setting up a tree on the stage, one so large that it scarcely fit under the roof. It was a monster, maybe fifteen or sixteen feet high, and the sound of laughter rang out as the men hauled it erect.
Yule logs and holly, the traditions of Jonas’s childhood, had fallen out of fashion in favor of new German practices popularized by the late Prince Albert. To his eye, the tree seemed overlarge, a towering presence that demanded attention. By the time the tree was decorated with glass bugles and quilled stars, it would have transformed this space into something that felt alien. It left him feeling oddly disconnected from the upcoming holiday. Maybe it would still be Christmas if there were trees instead of ivy, if Boxing Day were replaced with visits from Kris Kringle, but it didn’t seem the same to him.
It would never be the same, not without his father ringing a string of bells at his bedroom door at six in the morning. Not without his father putting his mittens on and dragging him out-of-doors to examine the snow—if there was any—or to show him the countryside. This Christmas promised none of the things he remembered from childhood. His father couldn’t get out of bed any longer, and Jonas wasn’t sure he could bear hearing the bells, knowing that his father wasn’t ringing them. He turned his head away from the tree—from the men who hauled it erect, and the women who looked on, passing out steaming mugs amidst much laughter. They were thirty feet away, but it might as well have been a mile.
The house he was looking for stood on the far corner. A trickle of smoke issued from the chimney. The garden in front was nothing but mud, stones, and a few decrepit weeds. As Jonas opened the iron gate, he looked for some sign of life aside from the smoke. But the curtains, as always, were drawn shut.
He bent, picked up a crumpled paper that had blown inside the gate, and balled it up for future disposal.
So doing, he knocked on the door.
As always, the reply was minutes in coming.
The paper was wet and dirty and his hands were cold. His hands were perpetually cold these days; he chafed them together for warmth, but remembered at the last moment that he wasn’t supposed to blow on them. He was about to knock again when the door finally opened.