Free Tenfold More Wicked by Viola Carr Page A

y’are.”
    She edged towards her desk. What was that black powder? Highlighting traces of alchemical flux in the visible spectrum? God help her if the Royal ever got their hands on that. “You make no sense, sir. We have nothing to discuss. Kindly leave my house.”
    â€œBut I can help,” insisted Quick. “An improvement on your present pharmaceutical arrangements. At little or no cost to you, of course. Think of me as . . . a talented friend in need.”
    â€œOh, so I’m to agree to your ignoble demands, whatever they are, to stop you spreading malicious slander?” Elizawhipped her electric stinger from the drawer and kindled it, zzap! “I don’t think so.”
    â€œWhoa, Nellie. Take it easy.” He lifted his hands, with an injured expression. “And I was being so polite—”
    â€œYou’ve ambushed the wrong weak female, Mr. Quick. Were you ever stung by one of these? Not lethal current, heavens no. But the voltage is quite ridiculous. I’m told the sensation is most disagreeable. Now get out, before my mood deteriorates.”
    â€œAll right, fine, don’t get your garters in a tangle.” Quick swept his hat on with a flourish, tipping his tinted glasses down. Like a stage actor, every movement choreographed. “Truly, I’m pained we couldn’t come to terms. You’re an intelligent woman, Dr. Jekyll. Think on whether it might serve ye well to oblige me.”
    â€œI’ll oblige you with three thousand volts if you don’t get out of my house. And don’t come back. I shall be summoning the police directly.”
    He flipped a card onto the sofa. “In case you reconsider. I’ll see meself out.”
    In the hall, Hippocrates zzzp!d indignantly at him, and flashed his red unhappy light. Quick tilted his hat ironically, and slammed the front door behind him.
    Eliza thumbed off her stinger and ran to the window, peering out. Dusk, a sinister yellow-gray miasma. There he strode, beneath flickering arc-lamps into the fog-bound park. Hands in pockets, bowler hat at a jaunty angle, a whistle on his lips. Who was this Quick? How did he know her secret?
    She scooped up the trade card he’d dropped. Stiff white paper, embossed lettering in black and gold, all the barely suppressed excitement of a fairground playbill:
    P ROFESSOR M ORIARTY Q UICK!
    P OTIONS! L OTIONS!
    E FFICACIOUS P HARMACEUTICALS!
    T HE B EST IN T OWN!
    and an address along the expensive end of Piccadilly.
    At your service, he’d said, or for your entertainment.
    She snorted. Professor, indeed. A circus charlatan, with his mysterious powders and flashy matchbook tricks, making a fine living charming unsuspecting ladies out of their husbands’ cash for snake oil and fake fairy dust at inflated prices. Money, that’s what he wanted. Gold in return for his silence.
    She almost laughed. He’d picked the wrong target . . . but her stomach twisted. Madam Murder. Had he merely heard rumors, and confronted her to see what she’d do? Or did he know what she was?
    No, he was just an opportunist. A con man. Yes. That had to be it.
    Mrs. Poole poked her head around the doorframe. “Went well, did it?”
    â€œAnother sightseer, I’m afraid. Don’t let him in again.” A thought struck her. “What time did you say he arrived?”
    â€œA quarter hour ago. I told him you’d be out until eight, but he said he was certain you’d be along soon and he’d wait, thank me very much. Wouldn’t take tea either.” A dismissivesniff. “Bless me, Irishmen in your parlor. Next it’ll be Frenchmen and Republicans.” Mrs. Poole handed her the mail tray and bustled out.
    Eliza rubbed aching eyes. Quick had waited. As if he’d known to expect her early.
    Had he eavesdropped at Finch’s? Was the horrid fellow spying on her?
    Ridiculous. Not everyone was plotting against her. She’d attended