CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

His Grace William Cavendish, 5th Duke of Portland

ASHRIEKING FROM BEHIND his bedchamber door. ‘Your Grace! Your Grace!’

What was this? Where was he? What time was it? A woman’s voice – the maid? No, a French accent – the Tussaud woman.

The bed curtains were closed; he fumbled in the dark to sit up.

‘Are you awake, Your Grace? Can you hear me?’ came the voice from out in the hallway.

He was speechless, although he knew he had to reply, had to say something to stop the infernal noise. Where was the valet?

‘Wake up! Your Grace, you have to get up. She’s gone. Kidnapped.’

William cleared his throat and pushed the covers back. His nightshirt gathered at his hips as he gingerly put one leg after the other over the side of the bed. He stood, wavered, then pushed the curtain roughly aside. Feeble moonlight, just enough to see by through the uncovered window.

He hobbled to the door, his hands feeling the vibrations of the woman’s fist on the other side of the wood.

‘I know you’re in there. You have to wake up. She’s been stolen – can’t you hear me?’

Stolen. She’s been stolen. Tussaud must mean Elanor. No, it couldn’t be.

He cleared his throat again, and the noise stopped.

‘You do not make sense,’ he mumbled.

There was a pause, then Marie replied, this time in a whisper, ‘Elanor’s been stolen. A man has taken her. He’s broken into the tower. I don’t know how, but I suspect your valet may have helped him. He left a message that says he is keeping her in lodgings at Baker Street and will surrender her upon payment of a hundred pounds.’

William rested his forehead against the wood. This was unbearable. He’d thought he had killed off his life at Baker Street; he had stopped short of killing off the thing in the tower; he’d believed he had a servant who could be relied upon. But now it was all a mess. The risk of public scandal was again banging on his door like this mad Frenchwoman.

‘What time is it?’ he asked her.

‘Half past ten Wednesday evening, monsieur.’

‘Where is my valet?’

‘I don’t know, I haven’t seen him.’

He must have fled, or he would have been there attending to William. He must be guilty, as she said. But surely he could not betray William after so long; his old valet would have stuck by him.

The knowledge that he was alone, being forced to talk to this woman and to make quick decisions – to act, even – fell upon him, and he sank to the floor.

‘Monsieur, I know about Elanor. I know that she lives and breathes, I have seen it for myself. I share your secret about her, while the valet has lied to you, humoured you for the sake of his position. And now he has betrayed you at the final hour by orchestrating her removal.’

‘Why would he do this horrible thing to me?’

‘He wants the money for himself. And he is not educated like you, his mind has not been enlarged by books and ideas, so he clings to superstitions, calls Elanor evil and a demon when she is one of God’s wonders. We both know it.’

‘But I cannot do it,’ he whispered.

‘I know you are afraid, and I know going out beyond these walls is most trying for you, but she’s in danger from men who will use her, defile her and experiment upon her. No one else can save her but you.’

He looked across the room to the window, as if seeing the gates already opening before him as he rode out on a noble steed to her rescue.

No, he couldn’t confront a kidnapper. It was ridiculous. He would send for Trickett and then – and then what? Try to explain that through a mixture of lightning, wax, mechanics and a magical mantelpiece, a clockwork doll had come to life and was being held hostage? William would be declared mad, and his position as a peer would be in jeopardy along with his family honour.

‘You have to go,’ whispered Madame Tussaud through the door, as if reading his thoughts. ‘You have to go to her with the money and bring her back. When you return, I will help you. I will look after her, and you can go back to your rooms, your routines, your life as if it had never happened.’

‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I can’t.’

‘But you have to. You have to make amends for your mistake. You killed her once, didn’t you?’

William blinked, and his hands found the floor either side of him. ‘I killed her, yes, but it was an accident.’ There. He had said it aloud. To another human. And he couldn’t see her face. Couldn’t see her revulsion. Her judgement. He found that now he had begun talking, he couldn’t stop. ‘It was an accident. I was meant to meet her that night, at our tree, but I was too late. He’d already shot her.’

‘Who had shot her?’ asked Tussaud.

‘My father,’ said William. ‘He was mad, suffered delusions. Thought she was an intruder coming to steal the silver. And we covered it up. The family name had to be maintained, you see. Only the old valet, my father and I ever knew the truth.’

‘It was an accident,’ breathed Tussaud.

‘An accident.’ Tears ran down his face.

‘Monsieur, you can save this Elanor now. And, in doing so, finally free yourself.’

The words of hope echoed through his muddled mind.

‘Call for the carriage,’ he said, clearing his throat and standing up. ‘I’m going out.’