The Mysterious Madam Morpho (Blud #1)

The Mysterious Madam Morpho (Blud #1) Page 5

“Would that not be a beastly amount of trouble?” She ran a glove-clad finger over the beautifully drawn plans. “I understand Master Stain wishes me to perform as soon as possible.”

“I heard differently,” he said, giving her a meaningful look. “Master Stain has decided to stay here a few more days. We’ve been selling out every night and turning customers away, and if we stay longer, we’ll accommodate more coin and blood. London is, after all, a jolly big city. We’ll be here for another week, which will be more than enough time to build and perfect your act.”

Her mouth went dry, and she swallowed hard, throat rippling under the thick lace of her collar. “I . . . no. That can’t be right. He assured me we’d soon be on the road to Foxford.”

Mr. Murdoch looked up sharply from his plans, his eyes narrowing. “Are you perchance running away from something in that grand metropolis?” She must have blanched, for he dropped the teasing attitude and leaned closer, looking concerned. Putting a noticeably bare hand over her black glove, he said, “I did not mean to alarm you, dear lady. You are frightened. Has someone threatened you?”

Imogen drew back quickly, knocking a jar of pencils and pens to the ground, where it shattered. Glass and ink scattered across the floor, but Mr. Murdoch paid it no mind; his focus on her face was nearly unnerving. Imogen kneeled and gathered a handful of writing instruments, noting the beautiful nibs and identifying his preferred ink by scent.

“Bathory’s Borealis,” she said, her bemusement drawing her attention away from her former panic and his nearness. She held a brass nib to her nose and sniffed deeply. It had been her father’s favorite ink, and the scent reminded her of warm afternoons in the library with a cup of tea.

“So you’re an ink aficionado as well as a naturalist,” Mr. Murdoch said softly from quite close, and Imogen looked up to find him on the floor beside her, the knees of his butternut-colored pants acquiring new stains amid the muck she’d made of his things.

“I . . . yes. In university, we were only allowed to use the head professor’s favorite ink, and I confess I rather missed my Bathory’s. I learned to write with it, you see. The warm blue is just so lovely as it ages.”

“Enforced ink at university. Let me guess. Caw’s Pure Black?”

She dropped the quill in surprise. “How did you know?”

“I’m a King’s College escapee myself.”

A hundred questions danced on her lips, but he was moving toward her with the slow, unstoppable strength of a glacier. She had only a moment to notice the small white streak in his beard before he had leaned close to brush his lips over hers, butter-gold eyelashes swept low over closed eyes. For the briefest amount of time, Imogen melted into his kiss, the tension in her unspooling and replaced with a searing, radiating heat.

His hand came up to cup her cheek, his palm rough and scarred and warm. She longed to complete the circle of connection, and as his lips moved against hers, her arm rose to circle his neck. Unfortunately, she had forgotten that she held a bouquet of his pens, and as soon as the metal touched the fabric of his vest, she felt the clammy kiss of ink running down her wrist.

She broke away, dropping the pens and murmuring, “Oh, no. I’m so sorry, I—”

“No matter,” he said. “I collect stains as a pastime.”

He stood and walked to his worktable for a rag, and she collected the pens again, hoping her hat hid her embarrassment. The man made her blasted jittery, and that was a fact. He slid a metal can to her, and she tucked the pens inside, leaving the guilty fountain pen nib-up. The lever must have flicked open against his chest. He held out an oil-stained rag, and she dabbed at the rivulet of deep blue ink staining the sliver of skin between her glove and the cuff of her white blouse.

“Your vest, though. Shall I—”

He turned to face her, his eyes shining with a strange fire. “I don’t know what just happened. I should never have . . . you will have noticed that I am not . . . that is . . .” At that moment, a knock sounded on the outer door, and he muttered, “That will be Vil with my supplies. Will you pardon me a moment? I very much wish to complete my sentence.”

She simply nodded, still dabbing inconsequentially at her stained skin. She knew enough of Bathory’s Borealis to expect that her flesh would be tinted a deep, dark blue for a week at least.

With a determined nod and a look of frustration, Mr. Murdoch strode to the wagon’s door to admit Vil. Imogen could just see them in the other room and moved out of Vil’s line of sight, as being alone in Mr. Murdoch’s wagon and covered in his ink made her feel uncomfortably cheeky. Poor little Vil looked as if he were constantly hunted and terrified, and possibly drinking to deal with it. His eyes were huge and fearful behind his goggles as he glanced suspiciously around the room, leaning to catch sight of her and giving her a terse nod.

He motioned Mr. Murdoch closer, and the two men whispered together for some time. Imogen couldn’t hear what was said, but she could sense Vil’s excitement and Mr. Murdoch’s growing anger. Finally, he pulled away and gruffly said, “I’m going to need proof, you understand. Solid proof.”

Vil nodded, and the two men carried in several cheap pasteboard trunks. Each rain-spattered box hit the wooden wagon floor with a clank, and Vil was gone after one more meaningful glance in her direction. Mr. Murdoch walked slowly into his workshop as if he carried a great burden and simply stared at her.

“Are those the supplies for my butterfly circus?” she asked with a bright smile, sure that despite her careful training, she was blushing like a schoolgirl. She could still feel the imprint of his lips, a warm stamp that had settled there to stay. And he had yet to finish his sentence.

“I will need time to arrange things to my liking,” he said formally, keeping a fair distance and two trunks between them. “Perhaps you should take this fellow with you. I would hate to see an innocent crushed through my clumsy machinations.”

With a gentle finger, he retrieved the butterfly from his hair, where it had been settled for so long that Imogen had forgotten it was not a part of him.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “I don’t find you clumsy at all. And the Monarch has taken an unusual liking to you. Do you not care for her company?”

“I thought her a charming companion, to be sure.” He watched the butterfly slowly flap scarlet-scattered wings. “But I feel she will be with us all too short a time for me to become attached. Perhaps you have not heard? She is a fugitive.”

“A fugitive?” She had to force herself to hold her chin up, to stop wringing her hands.

“She was apparently stolen from the vaults of the Natural History Museum in London and is worth more than this entire caravan.”

“And what will you do with this knowledge?”

“What one does with butterflies—or what one did, when they existed. I will set her free.”

With a gentle flick of his finger, he sent the Monarch fluttering into the air, and Imogen held out a black-gloved palm. The butterfly landed and flapped there, as if confused. Mr. Murdoch began to sort through the trunks, and she turned her back to whisper to the Monarch and tuck the fragile, folded body back into its book.

“Please return tomorrow morning after breakfast, and we’ll begin building the circus,” he said without looking up.

“But you said—”

He looked up, his eyes meeting hers with a searing jolt that told her that no matter what his posture and words said, the kiss was as much on his mind as it was on hers.

“I gave my word. I will build this circus, no matter the circumstances of the performers. Or their mistress.”

“Thank you, Mr. Murdoch.”

“Thank me if you’re still here when it’s complete.” He looked down at the wooden floor, where a muddy trail marked her skirt’s passing. “I would suggest you don’t mention your act to anyone else, nor should you say that we’re working together. There are people here who would do worse than send a note to the Coppers for the price on one butterfly’s head, much less the head of its thief.”

“Only you and Master Criminy and Letitia know of the butterflies,” she said carefully.

“Then I will keep your secret, provided you keep mine.”

“And my trunk?” She stared down into the nest of books and hidden miracles. Before, the trunk had held hope. Now, in the wrong hands, it held evidence enough to hang her.

“If you’ll trust me, I think I know how best to keep your charges safe.”

Their eyes met over the trunk. She felt as if she stood on a precipice, one step away from freedom or doom.

“I find that I trust you, Mr. Murdoch.”

“God help you, Madam Morpho.”

6

When she slipped from his trailer with her jacket askew and shockingly unbuttoned, the rain had turned from an assault to a gentle annoyance. She turned back to his door with a curse, but he was already holding her parasol out to her. When the door closed a second time, she heard the heavy bolts slide home and knew she had been dismissed.

What a strange man he was! Imogen’s history with men was rather limited, but he was nothing like her strict and misogynistic father, nor was he remotely like the only other man she’d known intimately, if one could call it that. Even her peers at King’s College had been cruel and treated her as an object or an opponent for four long years, not even seeing her as a woman. She couldn’t count the times she had been spat upon, and there had once been an attempt to throw acid in her face, foiled only by the fact that she was almost always hiding behind a book. Since her first day at university, she had realized that men were a species she couldn’t understand, and she had therefore avoided them as much as possible in favor of more peaceable and long-dead subjects.

Still, there was a certain warmth about this Mr. Murdoch, a sort of unassuming good humor that drew her in more than she liked to admit. A small portion of his odd behavior could be written off as a lack of polite society, but she sensed in him a fellow scientific mind with cogs too busy turning to worry overmuch about propriety. And now he knew that she was a thief, and a clumsy one at that. But if she had understood correctly, he would help her anyway. She could only hope that Vil could be trusted to keep her secret—and that no one like Emerlie ever found out. She had been counting on the caravan staying far from city news, and also on her theft not being discovered for some time.