Page 45 of The Cabinet of Dr. Leng

He took a deep breath. “What would be my responsibilities?”

“I need a tutor for Joe. You are the closest thing he knows to a trustworthy adult. Not only does he need a traditional education, but he also needs the trauma of his incarceration eased, and he must have the wrong type of education he’d begun to receive in the Octagon and the workhouse erased. You would have to leave your current employment in a way that raises no suspicions. I’m sure you could arrange for your dismissal.”

Moseley nodded. “Anything else, Your Grace?”

“Yes. I, too, require education in…I suppose you could say the subtler customs of New York. I’m a foreigner. I am ignorant in matters of etiquette. I appear odd to people. I need you to help rid me of any behavior or habits that might bring unwanted attention. Things—” and here she gestured toward the guide lying on the table— “that can’t be learned from a book.”

Moseley inclined his head. He didn’t dare ask about remuneration; the bag of gold was already two years’ wages.

As if reading his thoughts, she said: “Your compensation will be two of those double eagles a week.”

He was stunned and felt himself flush. “That’s…absurdly generous.”

“If you knew the risks to which I am putting you, you would realize the compensation is barely adequate.”

This sent a chill down his spine. He wondered what else he might have to do. “So that’s all there is: just advising you and tutoring Joe?”

The woman—the duchess, Livia, or whoever she was—suddenly smiled. “Mr. Moseley. If you’re willing to enter this Masonic lodge of mine, let’s see how those first two assignments work out. Then perhaps you can graduate from ‘entered apprentice’ to ‘fellow of the craft.’ Your time of employment will not be long—six weeks, perhaps. But if we’re successful, and we survive, I’ll see that your dreams of becoming a doctor reach fruition.”

These words, spoken in that unusually low voice, were smooth and clear in enunciation, and it was only when the woman fell silent that Moseley noticed she had included survival as a codicil of employment. Again, he felt that chill. But he put it aside.

“How shall I begin?” he asked.

“Joe is upstairs. He’s comfortable physically, but emotionally he is suspicious and in distress. You can help with that.”

“In that case, please lead the way.”

The woman smiled once again. Then she rose and, after waiting for him to do the same, led the way out of the candlelit study.

27

BACK IN THE CENTRALhall, the duchess led Moseley toward a grand staircase leading to the upper floors of the mansion.

“I apologize, Mr. Moseley, for the condition of the house,” she said. “I’m still in the process of moving in. Everything should be in order within a week or so.”

“It’s beautiful,” he replied, truthfully. “I couldn’t help but admire the marble exterior.”

“Thank you,” she said as they ascended. “It’s one of the reasons I took the house.”

“I’m no expert, but the stone has a pearlescent effect—as if it had depth as well as surface. And the pink color that the gaslight drew forth from it was extraordinary.”

Sharing his aesthetic observations with others was quite unlike him. The woman appeared to be struck by them and she paused on the stairs. “I would certainly agree. The original owner was French, and was so attracted to that rare marble that he bought the only known quarry of it, outside Montluçon. I fear his good taste not only exhausted the quarry but also his finances, and he went bankrupt. He was forced to sell the house in the state you see at present. His loss was my gain.”

“Evidently.” Moseley wondered what a place like this would sell for. A fortune, of course, but from what little he knew of the Morgans and Astors and Vanderbilts, he guessed they wouldn’t like it—for the same qualities he found most intriguing. “You understand, Your Grace, I’ve never before been inside a house like this. But I’ve always taken a great interest in architecture…” He trailed off, thinking he had said too much.

She turned to him with an arch smile. “YourGrace? No, please. Livia.”

He looked back at her.

“Say it,” she coaxed. “Livia.”

“Livia. The wife of Octavian.”

“Yes.” She turned and continued to ascend. “In France, this style is calledLa Belle Époque. It has yet to take much of a foothold on this side of the Atlantic.”

Reaching the second floor, she led him down a carpeted hallway, decorated with side tables, vases, and paintings. Again, they appeared to Moseley to have been acquired for their beauty rather than pretense. This was a duchess with not only money, but an appreciation for art and architecture. Above, he could hear occasional hammering and the muffled voices of workmen putting the finishing touches on the roof. As they walked, he noticed that the maid who’d let him in—a short, slender woman about his own age—had quietly joined them.

“This is Féline, myfemme de chambre,” the Duchess explained. “She’s a quick study, discreet and reliable.”

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