Bring Forth a Fire (Book 1)

Nineteen - Devil's Proposal

The Kingsleys' manor was two streets over, quite large, and white. Reid had spotted me rounding the corner, and Arthur had given him his address and instructions to wait there. The façade was an attractive Greek revival, the columns flanking the door decorative without being too ostentatious.

We were greeted by a wizened old man in a frayed tuxedo, bent over at such an impossible angle it was hard to believe he was still walking. But Arthur took the old man's hand and pressed it, saying something in a low voice.

"Should His Lordship be notified?" wheezed the old man. "We have not set out extra table settings."

"I won't be staying long, sir," I said quickly, not wanting to be any more trouble than was necessary. "Mr Kingsley and I only ran into a bit of a problem on the street and we wanted to tidy up."

The old man stepped aside, and as I passed him, I noticed his eyes – mismatched like mine – were misty with cataracts. He was completely blind.

"Your father believes it is wise to keep a man in his condition in such a position?" I said as we ascended the stairs, surely out of earshot of the old man.

"He has served our household since I was just a babe. Father could not bear to part with him." Arthur's voice softened at the memory. "He was present at my birth, I believe, when Father was away."

I certainly was no stranger to that. Mr Lowell was the same in our household. He remembered my father when he was a child, serving as underbutler at the time. And he had been a staple in our family ever since. He practically was a member, although Grandmother would certainly feel a fainting spell coming on if she heard me say that out loud. At least that bit of sentimentality existed in her.

"There is something I meant to show you, Emma," he said, as we reached the first floor. It was as beautifully decorated as the ground floor, with gold, dark blue, and stone tiles. We passed a large painting of a young man, with eyes as grey as Arthur's, standing next to a young woman on a swing. Her hair colour matched Arthur's exactly, and her features were as soft and delicate as a doll's. And she was quite beautiful, in a fragile sort of way.

"Are those your parents?" I asked, stopping briefly before it. They made a picturesque couple, at any rate, but until this point I had never seen or met his mother.

"Yes," he said with a sigh. "Painted a year before I was born. Pity that Mother never goes out any more. She is sick nearly all the time now. I have Huntley to thank for that."

"I'm sorry, Arthur," I said, and I truly meant it.

"Only apologise, Emma, for the fact that the world is not free of him yet." Arthur ran his thumb over my chin, gently, and it came away dirty. "But even then it is no one's fault."

We stopped at a dark wood door. Arthur immediately led the way through it, and I found myself in a well-appointed washroom, painted a light blue and complemented by dark grey tile.

"This should be sufficient," Arthur said, more to himself than me, and immediately proceeded to start taking off his clothing.

"Arthur!" Immediately I spun around, putting my back to him. A blush was rising up my neck and into my cheeks. "Don't you suppose you should ask me to leave first?"

"No, Emma, because there is something I believe you should see." His voice was much too calm for a man who had just begun to strip down in the company of a woman he did not know well. "You can turn around now."

With reluctance, I slowly revolved on my heel, gasping and freezing in place when I did. Arthur had his back to me, his shirt down at his elbows. Across his back there were long vertical scars, crossing each other and puckered like burns. They were whip marks, unmistakably. A whip on fire.