A Steampunk Guide to Hunting Monsters 18 | Page 11

W EDNESDAY , D ECEMBER THE F IRST
Perdina and I attended the National
Gallery. Th at woman absolutely refused
to unlink her arm from mine, droning on
endlessly about her Baron husband and their
Baron life, but I put on my best smile and
nodded politely. I was quite interested to
discover that the very painting upon which
the lithograph of Ruthven Gowrie was
based was housed in the National Gallery.
We looked at the painting. Th e man was
quite handsome in his day, not at all like the
unsettling thing in the cage.
“Have you seen this man before?” I asked
Perdina.
“Oh, heavens no,” she replied. “Dear, this
painting must be from Elizabeth’s Golden
Age at least. Th ough, he does remind me so of
my dear Baron, don’t you think?”
I suppose it could have been possible if one
squinted quite hard in his direction, at dusk,
with the light behind him.
We exited the gallery and the familiar
overcast skies of London were once again
above my head, reminding me of how glad I
was to be home. But it wasn’t all good news, for
we stumbled upon a newspaper hawker who
provided the most heartbreaking information.
It seemed Prince Leopold, Duke of Albany,
had had a mysterious fall and bled to death
while on holiday in France! Even more tragic,
this incident happened right about the time
that I had been passing through Europe on
my way back home!
We purchased a paper and read within its
pages that the Prince did not simply bleed to
death, but was, in fact, found with no blood in
his body at all!
I began to feel most acutely that there were
many coincidences stacking up a little too
neatly, and I was overcome with a sort of dread.
I felt eyes were watching me! Linked arm-in-
arm to my dear friend, I began to feel the gaze
of every young man in the crowd. I dragged
Perdina about, trying to fi nd a safe place to
escape. We descended the steps to an empty
walkway along the Th ames, for now I was
quite certain that somebody was following us.
But the mist by the river, rising and swirling
over the distant fi gures of men, unnerved me
even more so. I yanked Perdina back into the
busy street, whereupon I crashed right into a
group of people. Perdina and myself were left
to sprawl about in a most unladylike fashion
on the sidewalk.
Th en, a most sturdy gentleman stepped
forward to give Perdina a hand, helping her
most graciously to her feet.
“Oh, thank you most kindly, sir,” she said.
“Are you not,” he replied. “Th e Baroness
Kennicott? I’m certain I read about your
marriage in the illustrated papers!”
Perdina giggled most shamelessly at being
recognized. Realizing that the gentleman was
showing no interest in helping me to my feet,
no doubt blinded by the low hanging fruit of
a Baroness, I waffl ed about until I could stand
on my own. I looked at the gentleman.
I must have turned pale as a sheet, for I
could feel a swoon coming on. It was the man
from the painting!
He looked at me with such disdain. An
aloof smile faded from his lips and turned
into a sort of sneer. By his expression one
would assume that I had somehow wronged
him by being too lowly born.
“I am Lord Gowrie,” he said, holding his
hand to Perdina’s.
Perdina giggled once more. “Th ough I
am not accustomed,” she said, “to meeting
gentlemen in such a way, I will certainly have
such a story to tell my Baron! A Lord saving
me from falling into the street to be run over