Realms of Fire

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “How very extraordinary,” remarked the duke.

  Salperton found it amusing. “Married or not, you’re still causing women to swoon, old boy.”

  “Not intentionally,” Charles muttered, thoroughly embarrassed. “Go on with your story. The madman was arrested?”

  “Oh, yes, that—well, yes, he was arrested, and that is when I entered the tale. Inspector Ryan and I’ve come to know one another quite well since I opened Montmore to patients, and he often asks me to consult whenever he books someone with mental instability into his cells. They’d listed him as Bleeding Jack Nobody, for no one knows the fellow’s true name, and he was bleeding profusely from self-inflicted wounds when they found him—both times. He’s determined to open his veins, it seems, and he shouts of creatures crawling through his blood. I’m hoping someone in the area might identify him eventually, for the family might know the reason for his condition. Charles, the man told some very wild tales about seeing...” he leaned forward to whisper. “He spoke of seeing dragons.”

  Suddenly, Sinclair was all attention. “Dragons? He used that exact word?”

  “I’ve not yet heard him speak it, but the police claim he did, many times. I could say nothing to Inspector Ryan, but it’s possible this poor man may have witnessed some of the supernatural events the night of the castle fire. You and I both saw the remains of that strange creature. It might pass for a dragon, don’t you think? And both Mr. Blinkmire and Count Riga told how these things breathed fire. And though I’m an advocate of honesty and truth, I don’t believe we should allow this particular truth to find its way into the newspapers. I worry about anyone else overhearing details about that night; particularly as it involved the duchess, so I’ve had the man transferred to Montmore.”

  “Montmore? Not to your home, Henry!” the duke objected strongly. “This man could harm your patients, or you! You’ve no idea what he might do!”

  “Trust me, Charles, I would never place any of my patients in danger.” He thought of Violet Stuart, the memory of her unexpected kiss causing him to smile. “Each one is dear to me, and I’m their protector as well as their doctor. No, he’s in a small cottage once used by my grandmother’s gardener. I’ve made sure the house remains locked, and there’s a capable male attendant on duty. Thus far, the man’s been quite subdued, actually. He’s told me some startling things, Charles. I really think you ought to come talk with him.”

  “Perhaps, after the funeral today,” the duke suggested.

  “Yes, that would work, but might we could go before? Montmore is only a ten-minute drive from here. And whilst there, I can introduce you to my mystery patient. Violet Stuart. She’s made enormous strides the past few days, and I’ve even mentioned going on an outing, but I’ll require your approval. We’re still on for the theatre tonight, I take it?”

  Sinclair felt suddenly warm. An odd tingle passed along his scalp and into his brain, making it difficult to concentrate. “Theatre? Yes, I think so. I’m not sure. Beth mentioned it after supper last night. We can ask her at the church this morning.”

  Charles ate the orange thoughtfully, his eyes drifting now and then to a black-framed, oval mirror on the wall directly behind Salperton. Both their reflections shone upon it, along with several other restaurant patrons; each busily chatting or enjoying breakfast dishes. For a fraction of a second, the surface of the mirror liquefied. Ripples of silver became circular bands of eddying black, as though the mirror formed a doorway to an inky whirlpool. Gradually, a pair of pinpoint lights pierced the darkness.

  Two fiery orbs that blinked.

  Hello, boy, an ancient voice whispered into the duke’s mind. I’m coming.

  Suddenly, Charles felt like a petrified child. Fleeting images from his past whirled through his mind in rapid succession, and he quite clearly heard two pistol shots, followed by a woman’s scream.

  He dropped the half-eaten fruit, forcing the unwanted images back into their mental closet, where the memories had slept for nearly three decades.

  There was time to face the truth later.

  Chapter Thirteen

  10:05 am – 5 Fitzmaurice Place, Mayfair

  Cordelia Wychwright had never cared for black. Her skin always took on a dull, pearlescent grey tone in darker shades, but black made her look positively ghastly. She pinched her smooth cheeks, hoping to break enough capillaries that the ghostly pallor might give way to a pleasant blush, but even her cardiovascular system colluded to force the unhappy ingenue into mourning.

  “Stop doing that, Cordelia,” her mother chided as she descended the staircase. “It will only give you a splotchy look. There’s a pot of rouge on my dressing table, inside the little Chinese box. It will make a world of difference, but use it sparingly. I shouldn’t want you to give the wrong impression. There will be many, eligible young men at the funeral. Men with influence and impressive incomes.”

  The middle-aged widow wore a modestly bustled dress made from finely woven silk crêpe with a matching, high-collared jacket, trimmed in four vertical rows of jet beads. The full-length veil had been pulled back from her face and pinned to allow her to see and speak (not to mention check her rouge and powder), however it would be lowered to cover her face once the family arrived at St. Marylebone’s for the service. The gauzy fabric admitted just enough light to manoeuvre safely through a crowd, but gave the correct impression of a woman in deep mourning; precisely the effect the ambitious widow desired.

  “Do hurry, Delia,” she urged her pale daughter. “The coach from Cooper and Price will be here soon, and we don’t want to be late. Think of your father, my dear.”

  “Yes, Mama,” the girl sighed, stepping to one side to allow her mother full access to the foyer’s black-draped mirror. “You look splendid,” she added. “And quite young.”

  The dowager baroness was straightening a pearl and sapphire pin, which she’d secured to her new jacket. “That’s kind of you to say. Is the pin too much? Your father bought it for me last Christmas. I wear it only in his honour; not for any vanity.”

  “It’s quite nice,” the girl replied.

  “Yes, yes, I know it’s nice, but is it appropriate? I’ve no wish to appear cold-hearted, my dear. We’re about to lay your father to rest, after all, and all the important people of London will be there.”

  “Is he at rest?” the young woman asked plaintively, a slight twitch to her left eyelid.

  “Of course, he’s at rest! Why would you even ask such a thing? Cordelia, whatever is going on inside that empty head of yours this morning? Did you take the medicine Dr. Gehlen prescribed? It’s meant to calm you, yet your face has a distinctly hectic expression to it. You should take another spoonful, perhaps even two.”

  Apparently satisfied with her appearance and the new face powder’s youth-giving assistance, the widow began to fuss with her daughter’s simple ensemble, adjusting the cloth-covered buttons and straightening a small cameo brooch at Cordelia’s throat.

  “Do you take no pride in your appearance, Delia? Your hair looks very dull and lifeless. Have you been brushing it a hundred strokes each night? Do you use that French cream on your skin? Ah, well!” she sighed. “There’s nothing to be done about it now. Where are your brothers? I saw William not more than half an hour ago, and he promised to be dressed and ready by ten. Where’s he gone?”

  “He’s probably smoking with his so-called friends in one of the coaches outside, Mama.”

  “Do I detect envy in your tone, Cordelia Jane?”

  “Why should I be envious, Mama? Particularly regarding Will’s friendship with such shiftless men.”

  “Shiftless? Do not dare repeat that to anyone else, Cordelia Jane! It’s a scandalous way to speak of such fine young men as Sir Richard Treversham and Mr. Cecil Brandon. The baronet may not yet have a career, but he doesn’t require one. He receives a very respectable income from his estate, and Mr. Brand
on is sure to be accepted to Lincoln’s Inn soon and will quite likely become a powerful politician one day, just like his father. Who knows where their paths might lead? As you’ve no serious marriage prospects, do not resent any favour your brother curries.”

  “I wish to curry no favour, Mama. I only want to be left in peace!” she exclaimed, tears flowing down her ashen face.

  “Now, Delia, do be reasonable. You’ve done nothing but weep since you returned from hospital. Mr. Treves released you much too soon, I think.” Constance Wychwright handed her daughter a lace handkerchief. “Do stop weeping. It will cause your skin to blotch all the more. Dry your eyes and then take another dose of your medicine.”

  “I don’t care for the taste, Mama, and it makes me feel quite strange.”

  The dowager baroness cast a disapproving glare at her only daughter. “Medicine seldom tastes pleasant, and if the elixir makes you less contentious, then you should take it. Don’t you agree, William?”

  A tall man with a distinctly military bearing was just coming through the front door. Beyond the curtained windows, a pair of younger men dressed in bespoke finery loitered on the portico, smoking cigars and laughing.

  “Do I agree with what, Mother?” her eldest asked.

  “That Cordelia mustn’t be contentious, today of all days.”

  “A woman should never be contentious, no matter the occasion. She should endeavour to remain as pleasantly inconspicuous as possible.”

  William Wychwright glared disapprovingly as his younger brothers descended the staircase, followed by a brace of giggling children.

  “Ned, must those girls make so much noise?” he asked the taller of the two brothers. “Remind them that we’ll be the centre of attention today. Decorum, my boy, decorum in all things. And Tom, do stop slouching! Must your hair be so long? This isn’t Paris. London gentlemen have standards.”

  Connie Wychwright beamed at her eldest as though admiring a deity. “How very smart you look, my dear. I thought you’d wear your dress uniform today. You look so very dashing in it, but I see you’ve changed your mind.”

  “It isn’t a military funeral, Mother,” the new baron answered as he admired himself in the long mirror. “And besides, I’ve told Colonel Frobington I intend to resign my commission, effective on the first of the year. My place is here with you. I plan to stand for Father’s Parliament seat next year. Ned, do keep those children in line!” he barked, his harsh blue eyes fixed on the mirror as he reworked the knot in a black silk cravat. “I shall have to engage a valet as soon as possible. I’ve no idea how Father managed without one. In the army, I had a batman to keep my clothing brushed and mended. They’re simply indispensable. You know, I may just hire him.”

  “Hire whom, my dear?” his mother asked as she brushed his coat.

  “My batman. Sievers knows how I prefer things to be done, and he’ll be at loose ends when I leave the service.”

  “I’m sure anyone would be happy to serve your needs, my dear,” she told him. “Has this Sievers person also resigned?”

  “Not yet, but he will. Frobington owes me a bucket-load of favours. I’ll have no trouble persuading the colonel to see things my way. Beside, Sievers didn’t have much of a life before taking the queen’s shilling, though he’s got an adequate education. His father manages a granary in Kent, I believe.”

  “If you’re hiring a valet, perhaps we should consider employing a lady’s maid for Cordelia,” his mother suggested. “She and I both use Mrs. Complin. Your father never allowed us a proper staff.”

  “Delia will have to make-do with Complin for the present, Mother. Besides, she won’t be living here much longer. The sooner she marries the better.”

  Cordelia had spent a lifetime being ‘spoken about’ rather than ‘spoken to’, and she’d taken a chair in a far corner, as though trying to disappear into the wall. She reached into her silk handbag and withdrew a green glass elixir bottle that bore Anthony Gehlen’s handwritten label. She measured out a capful and drank it all down—followed quickly by a second.

  “I shall never marry,” she told her brother.

  “That choice isn’t up to you, Cordelia, but to me,” William declared. “Mother, what’s our solicitor’s name again? I plan to speak to him regarding our finances. We’re surely not the paupers Father claimed us to be.”

  “It’s Allendale,” the widow answered, “but there’s no need to contact him. He’s coming round tomorrow to read the will.”

  The small children moved close to Cordelia’s chair, the elder of the two girls taking her hand. “Are we poor, Aunt Cordelia?” the ten-year-old asked sweetly.

  “I don’t know,” Delia answered. “But you needn’t worry about any of that, Calliope. Not today. Tom, you and Ned look splendid. Really, you do. Black suits you.”

  Cordelia’s brothers, Thomas and Edward (usually called Ned), aged twenty-six and thirty-two, had inherited their mother’s mousy brown hair and equally mousy eyes. On the other hand, thirty-five-year-old William Wychwright had the golden locks and pale eyes of their father, and the thin moustache above his upper lip, gave him a regal air. Despite preferring male company to female, the new baron proclaimed a desire to marry—and marry well. In fact, he’d been speaking of little else since arriving two days earlier from North Africa. As the new head of the Wychwright estate, he’d also made it clear that Cordelia should find a husband right away, despite the usual six-month mourning period, for he had no intention of providing support to a sister of marriageable age.

  “Delia, you’re as pale as a sheep and twice as dimwitted,” the cruel baron proclaimed. “No man finds that attractive, which is why I shan’t be paying for a debutante ball next spring. It would be a waste of my money. Instead, I shall find you a husband amongst my friends. Surely, one of them will marry you, if only as a favour to me. Oh, and do something with your hair. It lacks life.”

  The two girls walked past the mirror, and one accidentally bumped William’s hand. He pushed the child away. “Ned, do something with these unruly creatures! And why must they come with us? They should stay here where they’ll not embarrass the family.”

  Bashful Ned Wychwright seldom challenged his overbearing brother, but he reached for his daughters’ hands and drew them close. “Unruly? Look here, Will, that’s unfair. They’ve been quiet as church mice all morning. Besides, I’ll keep watch on them. They loved their grandfather and should be part of saying goodbye. They’ll be good as gold, won’t you, girls?” he asked, kissing them both on the head. “Come now, let’s see if Mr. Wickham has finished putting the feathers on the horses’ bridles, all right? Delia, will you come with us?”

  The young woman started to rise, but William spun about on his heel. “Do not move, Cordelia Jane!” he ordered as though she were nothing more than a foot soldier. “You’re to remain here until you’ve made yourself presentable. It’s quite likely that other carriages have begun to assemble for the procession, and I’ll not have you embarrassing us. And don’t allow those children to distract our drivers, Ned. Those coaches are costing a fortune to lease. In fact, this funeral is costing far more than it should.”

  The Wychwright’s butler, one of five live-in servants, had been waiting nearby, dressed in sober livery and wearing a black armband upon his left coat sleeve. Though distressed by the family’s cutting conversation, the servant remained stoic and silent. He crossed to the door, opening it for Ned and the two children and found a well-dressed visitor just about to ring the bell.

  The unexpected caller’s shoulder-length, chestnut hair had been pulled back with a black velvet ribbon, and his cleft chin shaved smooth. The tall man wore traditional mourning dress: black frock coat and matching trousers, black silk waistcoat, white shirt, black ascot tie. The jewellery was sophisticated but understated: ebony cufflinks and shirt studs, a silver stickpin with a matching watch and chain.

  “Forgive t
he presumption,” the newcomer said brightly. “I wonder, is Lady Cordelia still here?”

  Every square inch of Cordelia Wychwright’s pallid face lifted with one accord at seeing the man who now stood within the entry.

  “Paul!” she exclaimed, not caring that she’d forgotten all sensible manners in front of her brothers. Her previously forlorn feet moved without prodding, and in seconds she’d pulled him into the foyer’s flower-strewn interior. “Oh, do come in. I’d no idea you’d be calling this morning. We’re all in a bit of a rush, you see.”

  The handsome earl bowed gallantly, a silk top hat in his right hand. “It’s presumptuous, I know, Lady Cordelia, but I’d hoped you might ride with me,” he told the grieving daughter. “If your family doesn’t object, of course.”

  Constance Wychwright managed to conceal her jubilant enthusiasm behind a convincingly neutral smile. “We’d planned to ride over together, of course, Lord Aubrey, but as you’ve made a special trip, I’m sure Cordelia would be honoured to join you.”

  “Captain Wychwright, I pray you’ve no objections,” the earl said graciously.

  The army officer shook his head. “None at all. It’s kind of you to offer, Aubrey. Mother tells me you’ve been most helpful during all of this. Of course, it might have been nice to have our father’s body returned to us with greater alacrity. Waiting nearly a fortnight to bury him simply won’t do.”

  “William!” the dowager baroness scolded in shock, not wishing to risk insulting the wealthy earl. “Lord Aubrey has no control over such matters.”

  “On the contrary, Mother, he has a great deal of control, if my spies are correct.” Seeing his mother’s stern face, the baron shrugged as if to pretend it had all been said in jest. “Well, spies might be too strong a word for it. Nevertheless, we’re grateful. Delia, go along with the earl, and we’ll see you shortly.”

  “Would the children like to come with me as well?” Aubrey asked. “My coach has plenty of room. Would you like that girls?”