a pity I have so much time on my hands.”
They were quiet for a moment.
“So it was not Lord Marvel, then?” Or Archer?
Victoria’s little smile returned, knowing and sure. “You are referring to the quarrel between Marvel and Archer.” She stirred her tea once more. Tiny clinks that hit Miranda’s nerves like an anvil. “Archer did not like the idea of Marvel taking his place.”
The cooled tea within Miranda’s cup began to steam. She let it go quickly. “Taking his place?”
Victoria’s cheeks plumped, her eyes gleaming as though she knew precisely how she tormented Miranda. “Of course, we were no longer together.” She tapped the rim of her cup thoughtfully. “Nevertheless, there was a modicum of jealousy involved as Archer does not like being replaced. In any capacity. So they discussed the matter.” Victoria’s brow lifted. “I assume you’ve heard the outcome of that discussion?”
Woodenly, Miranda nodded, and Victoria’s little teeth flashed like seed pearls beneath red-painted lips. “And did you, then, learn of how the elder members sent him away?”
When Miranda shook her head like an automaton, Victoria continued. “He was an embarrassment, a living testament to their failure. And one not easily controlled. Poor Archer never was able to govern his temper.” Her dark head tilted as she sipped her tea. “Quite the motive for revenge, is it not?”
Miranda could not argue the fact. So she sat as stone, her stays pinching her ribs, the cold length of silk encasing her torso tightening with each breath.
Victoria seemed to understand Miranda’s struggle between loyalty and logic. “Miranda, cher, I do not think it is he who does these things. Murder in secret is not his style. Archer in a temper is a glorious and vocal spectacle.”
She looked off fondly as though remembering something altogether intimate, and the collar about Miranda’s neck suddenly felt too tight. She swallowed hard, forcing a cooling breath as the room began to grow warm.
“Though you cannot deny,” Victoria went on, “he makes a most excellent target, should one want to make him appear guilt—”
“Do you still love him, Victoria?” She no longer cared to hear Victoria’s theories. Only to know where they stood.
Victoria tilted her head. The image of a great spider wrapping its victim up with silken threads to suck its life’s blood came to mind. And Miranda thought Archer had been quite correct in his desire to warn her away from Victoria.
“I believe you know that answer,” Victoria said in a voice like the gathering of a storm.
Cold sweat broke out over Miranda’s skin as her temper rose. The room heated, the gas lamps above their heads flaring white-hot. Victoria glanced at the lamps, her brow knitting. Miranda took a breath. Then another, pushing down that familiar feeling of need. The need to let go of her temper, and with it, the painful coil wound within her. Control, Miranda. Do not become that monster.
“Do you mean to try to win him back?” she asked.
Victoria’s lips pulled as if to offer the merest hint of apology. “And if that is my intent?”
The lamp about Victoria’s head wavered wildly as Miranda spoke. “Then you shall have to go through me.”
Victoria reached with shocking quickness, enfolding Miranda’s wrist in a grip like iron. “I find that I like you, Miranda. Despite myself, I do. So I shall give you a small piece of advice. If you intend to keep your husband, believe nothing you hear. Everyone lies. Most especially your husband. If he thinks it will protect you, Archer will not hesitate to employ the simplest equivocation to keep you in the dark. Do not let him, or risk losing him entirely.”
Chapter Seventeen
Everybody lies. Miranda could not stop Victoria’s warning from echoing in her head in a constant refrain. What were Archer’s lies? Why did he feel the need to tell them?
The muted song of a fiddle drifted through the din of caterwauls and raucous laughter. Despite the late hour, street urchins wove underfoot, brushing their little fingers light as spider silk over the pockets of the unwary. With any luck, they’d steal enough to keep them alive. Some were no older than three—little snakesmen and goniffs in the making.
Blue darkness cloaked Miranda, the scant lamplight saved for taverns. Her booted feet crunched over something that felt and sounded unnervingly like bones, and she decided that the darkness was a blessing. In more ways than one. With a bowler crammed down low and her shoddy coat collar pulled up high, most of her face was