Azmin could barely concentrate the next day as she taught her art students and attended classes. She’d stopped at the workshop first thing that morning to see if the varnish had dried on the would-be kidnapper’s negative, but she didn’t have time to print it out. So many things could go wrong with a glass plate—the fixing solution could be too strong, she could have washed away too much, she could have added too much varnish. . . She needed to see the printed photograph and not the reverse image on the plate.
She’d sent the hackney driver to the studio to retrieve the photograph she’d taken of the stabbed man and the crowd. There had been an interesting light hovering over the bleeding man that she needed to study. The crowd around him, however, was mostly shoes and trousers and of little use for identifying witnesses.
After her art class, she returned to Zane’s home and Louisa’s lessons as usual.
Giving her wrap to Thomson, she hurried down the corridor. Keya had brought the draper over to measure the sitting-room windows, and the three were discussing fabrics when Azmin entered. Keya had pinned up gauzy cotton ones to let the late afternoon light spill across the faded carpet.
As always, Louisa made an attentive student. Today, Azmin worked on teaching her the simplest camera. She was explaining about negatives when someone entered the front door and Thomson lumbered to greet them.
Zane was home early? Azmin’s pulse raced a little faster, even though she mentally cursed. She had meant to run back to the workshop before dinner and print the kidnapper’s photographs. The stuffy professor would not approve of her running about in the dark.
She was a free woman, she reminded herself. It didn’t matter what Zane thought.
The sound of her uncle’s voice distracted Louisa, but Azmin continued their lesson. The world did not revolve around the man—even though the memory of him protecting her with guns, swords, and fists gave her heart palpitations. In his tailored suit and silk ties, Zane did not look like a hero, but she knew the muscular power beneath his waistcoat. She had to remember he used his strength to thwart her when he could.
The rounded tones of a feminine soprano startled her into nearly dropping the camera.
Louisa lost any pretense of studying.
Fine then. She certainly wasn’t the only woman in his life. Azmin began packing up her equipment. It was obvious that lessons were done for the day.
A moment later, a blond vision in pink ruffles and rustling petticoats arrived, followed by Zane, looking a little too smug.
“May I introduce Miss White, daughter of one of the school’s directors. She is here to help us plan the student dinner.” Zane made the introductions.
The vision in pink fluttered her lashes and clung to Zane’s arm, all but purring as she examined the lovely little parlor they were creating for Louisa. She whispered something that had him patting the hand on his coat sleeve.
Feeling a foolish twinge of jealousy—most certainly brought on by her crushed adolescent hopes—Azmin curtly acknowledged Miss White. Once everyone had been made known, she picked up her equipment bag. “This is excellent timing. I will leave Louisa in good hands. Since I know nothing of your students, Dr. Dare, I will take my leave now. I have work to finish. I shall be back in time for dinner.”
“It’s almost dark out there,” Zane protested. “I didn’t see your driver waiting.”
Because they didn’t need a carriage while living in his house. Azmin was too confused to explain her reaction. It was like being sixteen and overlooked all over again. And she had utterly no good reason to feel that way, did she? Except she’d thought he had decided to let her handle the student dinner. She should be glad he’d listened to her arguments, right?
“It’s not dark yet and it’s only a short distance,” she called back as she hastened for the foyer.
A quick and eager student, Thomson had her redingote out and ready before she reached him. She offered him a brief smile of appreciation and left Zane arguing with the women in the sitting room.
Why did she have the feeling that for an educated man, the doctor was an idiot? Did he know anything at all about Miss White? Or was he doing it all over again—falling for a flirtatious smile, flapping eyelashes, and the benefit of a respectable, wealthy family.
It was good to know his weakness before she did anything stupid like believing the blasted man when he said he wanted her. Obviously, he meant that only in a carnal way. Had she believed anything more? Her fault, if so. She should have learned that lesson.
The lights were on in Mr. Morgan’s suite as she entered the back gate of Phoebe’s workshop. Mr. Blair must have gone home early, but she knew where the lamps and matches were. Letting herself in, she lit a lantern so she could find her way through the maze of animal cages and tools. Spying a small hatchet on Mr. Blair’s work table, she purloined that for the evening.
Despite the precaution, Azmin figured it was early enough that she didn’t need to worry about thieves or drunkards breaking in. Everyone should be sitting down to their dinners. She had quite lost her appetite, but she had work to do, so that was fine. Eager to print the results of yesterday’s photography, she hurried up to her studio.
She set the negative into the frame with the paper she spent so much time preparing and carried it up to the roof. It took forever in the fading light, but finally, she saw the image forming. Holding her breath, praying she’d caught the right moment of development, she ran downstairs with the frame and pried it open.
She exhaled in wonder—there it was, clear even before she finished the process. The evil shadow lurked around the image of the black-bearded thug who’d been sent to kidnap Keya. She had sensed that Gopala was innocent and that the large man harbored violence. Perhaps that was how she should describe the shadow instead of evil, except she sensed malevolence behind the violence. But how did one trust instinct?
How did her cousins know when what they felt was real and not the product of overactive imaginations? Lady Phoebe, at least, saw results when she talked with animals. Azmin would have to talk with Olivia, who saw auras, and ask her how one could have confidence in interpreting colors.
The light over the stabbed man in the other photo was puzzling and caused no instinctive reaction. She thought he was one of the men who had been paid to attack her yesterday. She certainly ought to feel his violence, if so. But if he’d only done it for the money and wasn’t actually evil. . .
She eagerly pried at the next frame. A knock at the door interrupted. Zane wouldn’t knock. It had to be her neighbor. “Come in, Mr. Morgan. Have a look at the images.”
“Miss Dougall?” a tentative male voice asked from the doorway.
She glanced up—Keya’s brother. How had she forgotten Mr. Blair had housed the boy here? Well, he was only a few years younger than her, so he wasn’t a boy. He just appeared very young with his smooth brown jaw and velvety dark eyes.
“Yes, Mr. Trivedi?” She continued prying at the frame, not wishing to harm the paper beneath.
“I wonder if you would speak to Keya for me? She is very angry, and I do not understand why. I only wished to help.” He remained near the doorway.
“It is for Keya to explain her anger.” The frame popped off, and Azmin cautiously lifted the negative plate to reveal the second photograph of the thug beneath.
This one was simply a closer image of the black presence. She had only caught a corner of the prisoner’s back, but the shadow did seem thicker there. It should be clearer once she fixed the image.
“Perhaps you can persuade her to at least speak with me. She never came home after she married, so we never had time to know each other. I wondered. . . does she think her place is above us now? Yedhu was a very wealthy man and moved in powerful circles. He adorned her with jewels and gold. Our family is well known, it is true, but we are not wealthy. Our little sister has found a successful man she wishes to marry, but his family will not agree to the match unless we provide a grand wedding and dowry. I have too many sisters for that to happen.” He folded his hands together as if to keep from wringing them.
Azmin sighed and showed him the photograph. “See this? See the black shadow around your friend?”
Gopala stepped hesitantly into the room to study the paper. “Yes? I do not know photography. Did you use special lighting to create the shadow?”
“The lighting should erase shadows and brighten subjects. Your friend is enveloped in a blackness of his own making. That’s what happened when I took Yedhu’s photograph. He lived in darkness, as does your friend here. How did you find him?” Feeling a little more confident of her interpretation, Azmin dipped the paper in gold chloride solution to bring out the details.
“He found me after Yedhu was cremated. There was a great mourning feast, but Keya wasn’t there, which worried us. We asked questions and Ulf pulled me aside to explain. My family was understandably horrified, and he offered to help us find her.”
Azmin hung up the paper to dry and reached for the next. “And he did so out of the goodness of his heart?”
Gopala shrugged. “He did it for the reward, I imagine. He is poor and greedy. That does not make him a bad man.”
“I’m pretty sure that shadow hovering over him makes him a bad man, like Yedhu.” Azmin dipped the paper of the second image into the solution.
“A shadow makes him bad?” Gopala asked in rightful puzzlement. “And what made Yedhu bad? I did not know him, just of him, as one does wealthy men.”
Point taken. People put on public faces. “You spent months with this Ulf and never saw him do anything bad?” Perhaps she was wrong about the shadow. Or perhaps evil only emerged when one was thinking malevolent thoughts.
Gopala was uncharacteristically silent. Azmin glanced in his direction. It was hard to see in the light of a single lantern, but a frown appeared to mar his smooth brow.
“He gambled. And sometimes people who won his money became injured. I did not see him do anything though. The sailors quit gambling with him after a while. He did nothing to me. And you have not answered me about Yedhu.”
“Yedhu was a violent man, much as this Ulf is, just as Keya said. I think the shadows on their photographs reflect that.” Azmin looked up at the pounding of footsteps on the stairs.
A loud bell abruptly clamored, and the corridor erupted in shouts.
Stomping up the stairs to Azmin’s workshop, Zane fumed. He was now making a complete ass of himself in front of a director’s daughter. But he’d heard the frost in Azmin’s voice, and he had a notion that she was distancing herself again. Last time, she’d run all the way to India. This time. . . she was damned well endangering herself. Morgan had a dangerous prisoner stashed in—
A loud clamor shredded his already ragged temper. He raced up the last few stairs.
Before he reached the top, the easily recognizable bulk of the murderous bandit dashed toward him. Zane had come unarmed—again. He had only his walking stick. It simply never occurred to him to travel with weapons when he had two perfectly good fists.
Hearing Morgan shout, assuming the Scot was right behind the villain, Zane backed against the staircase wall, out of sight. He wasn’t about to let a violent criminal loose on the streets to attack the women again. He just had enough time to thrust his stick across the stair as the prisoner reached the top.
Blindly racing down the stairs, the escapee didn’t see the stick. It hit right above his knees. He howled and pitched forward, down the narrow flight, landing with a distinct thud. Zane winced. That would have broken a few bones. He knew he should examine the man lying still in the dark at the bottom, but Azmin came first.
To Zane’s relief, her door opened and she peered through the gap, appearing startled and wary but unharmed. At seeing Zane, she opened the door a little more, and Keya’s brother peered around her. Gopala was a handsome young man, not much taller than Azmin. They made an attractive couple.
Realizing the two weren’t far apart in age, with similar interests and backgrounds, Zane suffered an insane flash of possessiveness before common sense prevailed.
“Get back inside,” he shouted. “I need to check on the prisoner. He may have had help.”
He descended the dark staircase, wishing he’d brought a lantern. Even as he thought it, Gopala appeared on the upper landing carrying a lit one. So much for hoping either of them would obey his command.
He almost wished they had and that he couldn’t see. The light illuminated the body below clearly enough to recognize that the bandit’s neck was twisted at an angle necks shouldn’t twist. He’d been a heavy, muscular man and not an acrobat who knew how to land well.
Zane closed his eyes and fought back a surge of nausea and remorse. Even though he had meant only to stop a dangerous man, he hadn’t meant to kill. He had always thought of himself as a healer, even if he didn’t possess his mother’s more magical abilities. Watching helplessly as his sister died had caused him to realize the medical profession lacked sufficient knowledge to save lives. He wanted to save people from dying, not kill them. So he’d given up medicine for research.
Kneeling, Zane tested the fallen man’s pulse. Nothing. Damn.
Morgan arrived at the top of the stairs. “He pried open the door with a fork. Do we need to tie him up?”
With a heavy heart, Zane stood. “I don’t think he’ll be going anywhere.”
And of course, Azmin hadn’t done as told. She watched from the top of the stairs, covering her mouth in shock, before disappearing into her studio. At least he knew she was safe.
The stubborn female reappeared a moment later, camera in hand. “Move over, Zane. You might want to move far away. I don’t know where spirits go when they depart, but his was evil.”
Of all the ridiculous. . . Still in a state of shock, Zane stepped downstairs into the animal shelter, leaving the landing empty so she could set up a tripod. Gopala held her reflector light. Zane was going to strangle her the instant she put that equipment away.
Not before—because he couldn’t contain his appalling curiosity at what she might capture. And because he damned bloody well understood. He wanted to cart the body off to the morgue and slice out its heart to see if it was as black as the bandit’s soul.
If she was insane, he was equally deranged.
He closed his eyes against the vivid flash, opening them again only after the bubbles of light behind his eyelids dispersed. The moment gave him time to set aside his turmoil and gather his thoughts.
“Blair has some wide planks down here. We can carry the body to the morgue. I’ll speak to the coroner, tell him an intruder fell.” Zane glanced up at Azmin, who was about to rush off to her studio. “You will return home with Gopala as escort. What the bloody hell were you thinking, coming here where dangerous criminals lurk?”
“My work might be as important as yours. I needed to prove that man had an evil shadow,” she called down in exasperation. “And if anything, I’d be protecting Gopala and not the other way around.”
Zane almost strangled on the retort he swallowed.
She swept back to her studio, then returned, minus her camera but brandishing a hatchet. “I carry weapons, unlike some people I know.”
Morgan snorted. “She’s right, you know. Despite the company he keeps and his knife-flinging capacity, Gopala is a pacifist who doesn’t even know how to use a weapon. He can help me carry the villain down to the morgue. Take your warrior princess home.”
A Hindu pacifist, of course. Why wasn’t Azmin a pacifist too?
Because she was a Malcolm, first and foremost. A maddening, insane, thoroughly independent Malcolm sent to make Zane’s life. . . much too interesting.
Treading heavily up the stairs on which a man had just lost his life, Zane left Morgan and Gopala to their unpleasant task, while he faced his.
“I didn’t have a wet plate prepared. I had to use dry.” Azmin was efficiently removing the framed plate from her camera, and Zane could only watch her in wonder.
“You’re a ghoul,” he said, because that’s how he felt about his urge to cut out hearts.
“Only to the British mind,” she replied absently. “Look at the photographs I took yesterday, over on the counter. I’ll take this to my developing closet.”
“What do you mean, only to the British mind? Yours is just as British as mine, and wanting to examine a corpse is ghoulish.” As she closed the plate in a box, he turned on a gas lamp to study the image of the prisoner in his cell. The big man cast a dark shadow.
“It’s not ghoulish if you believe our bodies are merely shells for the soul, and that our spirits move on when the shell expires,” she insisted. “It’s a Malcolm as well as a Hindu belief, although Malcolms interpret through our Druidic view of spirits and ghosts and whatnot. Every culture has its way of accepting death. Do you see the shadow? Even if we hadn’t seen it for ourselves or Keya hadn’t warned us, I can tell this man was violent. He would have been a danger to those sailors if he’d sailed with them. I do worry how a soul carrying that much bad karma can be cured in the next life, but I can hope he’ll come back as a helpless female so he learns what it’s like to suffer.”
“Dead is dead,” Zane said. “Whether or not there is an afterlife of any sort, it doesn’t replace the corporeal needs of this man’s family.”
Laying down her box, she abruptly turned and flung herself into his arms. “I’m sorry we dragged you into this.”
Zane clung to her. The guilt of causing a man’s death had frozen his soul. He understood that killing the bandit had ultimately saved lives, quite possibly Keya’s and Azmin’s, but he couldn’t accept that he’d been the one to cause death. In Azmin’s vitality and warmth, he let some of his frozen horror dissipate.
“If the black-hearted pirate was like Yedhu, then his family will be glad to hear the end of him,” she said into his shoulder. “Had he not set out to capture Keya, he’d be alive now. His greed brought about his end, not yours. Go, put his death to good use. Take out his heart and examine it and let your notes be his memorial. It’s more than he deserves.”
If anyone could understand his need to study death, Azmin could.
“Women are ruthless.” Zane rubbed her back, feeling her shudders. She wasn’t as calm as she pretended. “You’re like pretty confections with a hard nut inside.”
She laughed against his coat. “We’re all different, like a box of bonbons. Some of us are sweet and gooey inside. I’m not.”
Then she shoved away and smacked the shoulder she’d been leaning against. “And I’m still furious with you. Do not even attempt to walk me home, or I may have to beat you about the head until you learn sense.”
“I either walk you home or throw you over my shoulder, because hard nut or not, you’re still only a bonbon.” Tired of denying his need, Zane encompassed her in his arms again, and this time, he kissed her the way she needed to be kissed.
She smacked him with her puny fists, but she didn’t resist. Wrapping her slender arms around his neck, she lifted herself into him as if drowning and needing rescue.
He knew the feeling and was gratified that she returned it.
They needed a bed to take this moment to its natural culmination. He could take her here, but they would both regret it.
A woman’s scream shattered the moment.