Page 8 of Her Majesty's Necromancer
Silk rustled and swished. "But Lincoln—"
"It's time you left. There's nothing more to discuss."
I backed up a few steps then walked forward. I was several feet from the parlor door when Lincoln emerged. Our gazes locked and a spark of surprise burned in the depths of his eyes.
"You're back," he said to me.
"I brought tea." I held up the tray, feeling somewhat exposed and terribly guilty. Did he suspect I'd overheard their conversation? It was impossible to tell.
"Lady Harcourt was just leaving."
Lady Harcourt sailed past us as smoothly as a swan on a lake, her head high, her long white neck exposed above the low-cut gown. She didn't meet my gaze, or his, and if it weren't for the vein pulsing in her throat, I would have thought her unperturbed by his dismissal.
"Take the tea back to the kitchen," Lincoln told me. "Have one of the men bring a cup to my rooms."
One of the men, not me.
Lincoln followed Lady Harcourt to the front door, but it opened and shut before he reached it. I slipped back to the kitchen as her carriage drove off.
"Does Mr. Fitzroy have a family?" I asked as I set the tray down on the central table.
Seth had returned and he looked up along with the others upon my entry. "None that we know of," he said. "He doesn't want tea?"
"Lady H just left."
He formed an O with his lips.
"He wants you to take tea up to his rooms." I removed the extra cup and saucer. "He has parents, I know that much."
"Does he?" Gus asked mildly. "Thought he was spawned by the devil."
"Or the Reaper." Cook grinned as he held out a plate with a scone on it. "That be why he's called Death."
Gus took the plate. "No it ain't. He's called Death because Seth and me saw him dressed in a dark hooded cloak one night, holding a bloody big knife."
"And because he killed a man with the knife," Seth added. "The fellow's head had been almost severed from his body."
I felt the color drain from my face. Seth took my elbow to steady me, but I waved him away. I knew Lincoln had killed people; there was no need for me to be shocked at hearing about another death he was responsible for.
"He knew the fellow," Gus said. He set the plate down gently on the tray yet the clink sounded loud in the silence. "Fitzroy called him Mr. Gurry."
"Who was he?" I whispered. Even Cook was listening intently now, the pot on the stove forgotten.
Seth shrugged. "We don't know. We didn't dare ask him."
"The fellow begged Fitzroy not to kill him," Gus said. "He pleaded for his life, but Fitzroy killed him anyway."
"I'll never forget the look on his face when he ordered us to remove the body," Seth went on. He and Gus exchanged bleak glances.
"Was he upset?" I asked, unable to imagine such an expression on Lincoln's face.
"No. He was satisfied."
Satisfied? After killing a man who begged for mercy? The notion left a sour taste in my mouth and set my mind reeling. Surely there had to be an explanation. Lincoln had a reason for everything he did. Didn't he?
Seth picked up the tray but I touched his arm. "I'll take it," I said.
"Are you sure?"
