by Thea Devine
More silence. Angilee could almost see the wheels turning, and Mrs. Geddes turning over every idea, every option, every possibility that would meet every expectation of propriety.
"Ah. I know. We'll just act as if you are still with your father and he has hired me as your companion. No one need know, because neither he nor your would-be fiance will tell. Not at first, at any rate. So we'll come to grips with that when we must. If we ever must. Meantime, we must make lists; we must make plans."
She stood up abruptly and held out her hand.
"This is a most delicious problem. Very interesting. I will help you, Miss Rosslyn. Oh, and my bags are right outside your door. Would you kindly bring them to my room ... ?"
The fog had lifted by the time he reached Town late that afternoon; the sun was shining, and it felt as if a new energy had been infused into the atmosphere.
It felt strange. It felt as if the crushing sorrow had lifted with the fog and the air was charged with movement. There were no longer knots of people clustered on the street corners, and the passersby seemed to move as if there was a purpose, a place to go, something to do.
The difference was stunning. What had happened between the time he'd left Town and this moment?
He headed toward the Livery and took care of that, and then set out on foot to Wyland's offices.
Something was different. The sun was lowering, but there was a brightness in the air, as if it had been cleansed of grief and mourning somehow. Something had changed—what?
A moment later he saw exactly what had changed. There were signs everywhere, and the signs held the promise:
Tony Venable's Message of Hope: "I LIVE"
Resurrection and life—? Well, hellfire—the body was gone, anything could be made of that to the willing and gullible.
Tony Venable's Message from Beyond the Grave: No, not the rebirth, not yet—it was too soon to give them his replacement.
No, this was just about the pledge, the one thing they yearned for: the restoration of the paternal Venable, the man who would
take care of them, make decisions for them, create the perfect paradise for them, and give them freedom besides.
Goddamn.
And on every street corner, hung from trees and poles, were small baskets with cards in them—palm-sized cards with messages, Tony Venable's message and his precepts, in different combinations on each card.
The first read, Hope Message Return Patience
Goddamn.
He went from corner to corner extracting cards.
Faith Belief Live Return
Passersby taking one, reading it, holding it tight, close. Tucking it away to take it out later. Reaching for another one. Reaching for the promise ...
Testament Believe Love Acceptance
Jesus. Like prayer cards.
Respect Loyalty Return Trust
Holy saints ... and all overnight—how the hell had they done
that?
"Look at this, have you seen this?" he demanded as he was shown into Wyland's office. He tossed the cards down on
Wyland's desk.
Wyland picked them up and spread them like playing cards. "They turned up overnight." He got up to shake Kyger's hand. "Just suddenly they were all over Town. Sons of bitches. Pushing that ecclesiastical boundary a little too far on top of the missing body, if you ask me. Not coincidental, by the way. Sit down."
Kyger sat. "I haven't got much to report, and the fact it's been a month and a half since Venable's murder and the veneration of him is escalating like that... I feel as if I'm failing you."
"These things take time, my boy. I knew that when I brought you into this. No one expects you to do in a month what the Yard and all our investigators haven't been able to do in the two years Venable rose to such power. On the surface, as you see, he's pristine. But you have to scour the surface first to make sure there isn't some telling flaw. So tell me what has happened."
"Another trip to the Bullhead." He was reluctant to even say that much because he had no idea if what they had seen there, he and his vanishing virgin, had anything to do with Tony Venable.
Or the fog, the coachman, or what had happened at the Park of the Seven Sisters.
Or the mysterious and ubiquitous cards, for that matter.
"I found nothing conclusive," he said. Just the chocolate virgin, moving walls, hooded men massed in sevens, the mysterious disc symbol, and the undercellar storeroom which had nothing stored in it. And the coachman who had somehow found his way to the Bullhead from Cheapside.
Nothing definitive at all. Everything as insubstantial as the fog, and the whole sounding like a chapter in a penny dreadful.
"But—its obvious pleasures aside, I think there is something to be uncovered there," he added. "I just don't know what."
"I do, too," Wyland concurred. "But these insidious cards that turned up overnight., something wholly unexpected—and I'm thinking this is another avenue we need to explore. Someone funded those signs and those card pockets all over the city. That's not an inconsiderable amount of money to spend to disperse Tony Venable's message. The timing on this is spectacular. All in the month or so since his death—the growing movement to lionize him, the move to make his house a shrine and center of his ideology, then that seance and the uniform message to his adherents, then the body disappears—nothing on that, by the way, and the Yard is deep into investigating it—and now the signs and cards. Signs and wonders, some might say. We can't let it go farther than this."
"They were snapping them up this morning as I came here,"
"It's a brilliant tactic. All in public, and they just won't let him die. I just wonder where the money for this is coming from. And maybe, if we can find some link to the money, we'll find a clue to what will take Venable down. So—by all means, keep following up at the Bullhead—at your pleasure—but now, since the little Season is about to launch, I think we're going to launch you into society as well to see what idle gossip you can pick up.
"You didn't hear me say that, by the way. If the powers above even knew that I'm running this whole operation not by the book . .. This is so out of the ordinary, I still don't know quite what to do, or even what you're looking for. Whatever seems out of order, I suppose. What seems anomalous. Whoever might seem to be a
great admirer of Venable's ideas and ideology. A boast, a brag. Someone carrying an inordinate number of the actual cards. Or talking about them ... I really don't know what would raise your suspicions. I just want you to be looking—starting tomorrow. Public places first so you'll start to be seen but not draw attention to yourself. A subtle insinuation is what we're after. But you'll be among the kind of people who might just support Tony Venable's cause. You'll make it a point to ride in the park every morning. Start conversations. Make acquaintances. Go to the museum, play cards at the clubs. Lujan belongs to Heeton's. I'll get you in there. I'll make certain you get invitations to the right dinners and parties, places where someone else might be conspicuous, but because you're Lujan's brother, you'll be welcomed."
Kyger blinked.... because you're Lujan's brother. .. words he'd hardly ever thought to hear; he was shocked to the core that Wyland was telling him that his big brother had not just been a steeped-in-sin voluptuary who cared for nothing but the satiation of the flesh. That he hadn't just come to Gomorrah for the express purpose of fucking his life away. That something else had happened here, and that he had made the connections and alliances that a man of stature and wealth ought.
"Are you still in Cauldwell Gardens?"
Kyger nodded.
"I think you should move into the town house. It makes a better story—the younger brother back from his year abroad and ready to immerse himself in society—and perhaps find a wife..."
"That's a little self-serving," Kyger said. "Even if I wanted to find a wife, there's no time for that."
Wyland shrugged. "It's a plausible story. Lujan has settled down. You've done your world tour. You'
re well-heeled. You're taking your pleasure at the Bullhead—which any well-bred scion of a wealthy man would—and now you're thinking about marriage. It serves our purpose just as well, my boy, and you'll be operating on two fronts here, and perhaps between the two things, you'll uncover something we can use."
"As you say, sir. I'll open up the house today."
"Good. And I'll infuse your account with the funds you'll
need. Hyde Park tomorrow, then, and dinner and dancing to follow."
"It sounds so frivolous," Kyger said.
Wyland grasped his hand. "Or, of everything we've tried, it just might prove the most fruitful."
Chapter Eleven
A London Season was a proscribed thing, aligned with the opening of Parliament and timed with the end of the sporting season in the country, a grouse shoot having more importance than governance in some quarters.
The first event of the Season, after Parliament convened, the presentation of this Season's debutantes at Court, and Easter, was the Royal Philanthropic Society Charity Ball—the Queen's Ball, as it was known, the most prestigious charity ball of the year. The invitations were the most coveted, the contribution was costly, and this year, because of the upcoming celebration of the Queen's Diamond Jubilee later that summer, it was one of two major must-be-seen-at events this year, and as always, it was the signal for the launch of the Season.
"So," Mrs. Geddes said as they were going over her list of necessities and must-do items the next day, "we must engineer an invitation. You can be certain that your father will have been invited, and probably his invitation included you. And you must be aware that you could see him there."
"Well, then—" Angilee said and stopped short. The prospect of seeing Zabel in that kind of crowd didn't bother her at first thought. The more important thing was the invitation. Immedi-
ately it occurred to her that she could just slip into Zabel's hotel room when the maids were cleaning and the door would be ajar, find it and save Mrs. Geddes a lot of trouble. But she couldn't tell Mrs. Geddes that.
"How do we go about doing that?" she asked finally, already girding herself for the task of returning to Claridge's and instigating a room search. The maids came at noon, she seemed to remember, and probably Zabel would be out at that hour. Although once in a while he did have his midday meal in the room, more often than not, he—they—dined in the hotel dining room.
"You leave that to me, Miss Rosslyn. There are ways. This is a charity event, after all. And it is the Queen's Ball. Money is never refused."
"I see," Angilee said. But what she saw was more money pouring out of her pocket when the simple solution was to extricate her legitimate invitation from Zabel's room.
How hard could it be? Of course, he could have posted guards in the hallway, waiting to pounce on her in his certainty she must return sometime. But surely after a week, he'd have understood she wasn't coming back, she did have money, even if it was bis money—but he had more than enough money anyway—and that she was not going to marry Wroth, and she was perfectly capable of fending for herself.
What would she do if he had hired watchmen to guard the suite?
She'd deal with that later. The simplest thing was to get to the hotel and get that invitation so she wouldn't have to spend the money to buy one.
"Well, here is the itinerary that would normally be followed during the Season," Mrs. Geddes said finally. "You'd spend the morning riding in Hyde Park, between ten and perhaps noon. You'd have breakfast, and then either begin your round of afternoon calls or go shopping. You might have been invited to receptions, picnics, garden parties and the like, but that won't happen for a while, and so these adjustments have to be made: we will attend public amusements—polo or cricket matches, for example; we'll take an additional afternoon ride in the park, go on promenades, you and I together, go shopping, to museums and to the lending library, and hope to make some acquaintances who will
be sufficiently charmed by your father's wealth to include you in a dinner or evening event invitation.
"Meanwhile, I will scour my connections to secure those same sorts of invitations—and I'm assuming you would prefer to attend dances and balls, where there will be a larger population of eligible gentlemen who are not yet attached. The competition is fierce this year, as you know. We need to buff up your wardrobe as well, which is very elegant and trim, but not—quite ..."
Angilee bridled. She had excellent taste, she knew it, and her newly acquired wardrobe was up to the mark for ready-made wear. But—this was not a ready-made society, and wardrobes were looked at through a magnifying glass. "Yes," she said tartly. "My quite wardrobe is sitting in my dressing room at the hotel doing no one any good. You must allow me some time to see if I can get hold of it, rather I spend additional funds to reoutfit myself."
"Do you truly wish to do that?" Mrs. Geddes sounded very doubtful. "On the other hand, it would take quite some time to have the dresses made to my exact specifications. So ... perhaps you ought..."
The "ought" part was the scary part. Stealing a piece of pasteboard was one thing, but how she would accomplish the filching of an entire wardrobe from the hotel was quite another. Although a trunk would be helpful. And perhaps buying new undergarments to save some time.
"I think I must try," she said finally.
Mrs. Geddes stared at her. "Well, I have never . .. you are an original, Miss Rosslyn, truly fearless in the face of everything that could happen in the course of your attempting this. I will deny backward and forward that I ever had anything to do with you if your father should discover what you're about."
"A wise move," Angilee said dryly. "This is all between my father and myself in any event, and I am determined to come out the victor. And if I need my beautiful Parisian designer clothes to do so, then I will make sure I have my Parisian designer clothes. Just don't ask me how I'm going to accomplish it."
"I wouldn't dream of it," Mrs. Geddes murmured. "I truly don't want to know."
Angilee didn't want to tell Mrs. Geddes that she didn't know
either, but time was growing short. By Mrs. Geddes' list, it seemed to her she had a vast amount of work to do on her own. She had to make an effort to meet people, and make herself agreeable enough to be invited places, while she cleverly insinuated herself into the mob of British and American heiresses jockeying for the same position in a way that made her. distinctive enough to be noticed by some eligible bachelor.
With her father's intimidating presence at any one of the events she might attend, although she was certain he would never make a scene.
But even then, there was no guarantee she would find someone willing to marry her on short notice.
Well, that was for later. Right now, she needed that invitation to the Queen's Ball, and she definitely needed her beautiful new clothes.
She needed a plan of attack.
She needed to know if anyone was watching her father's hotel suite. She needed to know what time the maids came in to clean. She needed some kind of suitcase or portmanteau. She—
BUT—! She'd left with nothing: her suitcases, her trunk, were still in the suite, unless her father had totally discarded everything that was hers.
Would he? She didn't think he would ... it was too soon—
Was it?
And if he had—? Would he have stored her things in the hotel? Donated everything to a charity? Burned it in the sitting room fireplace?
No, that was an investment of too much money for him to do something as foolish as either giving her clothes away or donating them. He'd store them for sure, if they weren't still in her closet.
She needed to get into the room. She needed to accomplish all of this in the next two days, if not tomorrow.
All right. She squared her shoulders. Tomorrow. First things first. And the rest could come later.
Kyger fully expected to find the town house closed up tight and empty. It wasn't. He opened the door to the warmth of
a house that was attended to, that was bustling with servants, that was ready for someone's arrival.
Lujan?
"Oh, yes, sir," the butler, a butler who was new to him, said deferentially. "Mr. Lujan comes about once a month to tend to his investments and the like."
Oh, yes, the investments. His deceased father's unholy, long-lost hoard of diamonds that they—he, Lujan, and Jancie—had all transformed into fortunes that would cushion them for the rest of their lives.
He'd barely touched any of his money since he'd returned. And Wyland was going to finance this little Season, which wouldn't come cheap.
But Lujan—managing his investments? Lujan, in the percents, eking out the best interest, making his money increase, rather than spending it on whores and wine? Lujan belonging to Heeton's ... ?
God, the world had turned upside down, and it wasn't just the foggy mysteries of Tony Venable, the Bullhead, all the coincidental sevens, or those insidious invocation cards.
And being home, although he'd never considered the town house his home, really, wasn't much reassuring, because nothing here was what he thought it would be either. Nevertheless, here he would stay, and so he told the butler once he had introduced himself and made clear he would be in residence for the time being.
"I'll write a note to be sent down to Waybury that I will be occupying the town house for the foreseeable future, if you'll see to it—Cryder, did you say?"
"Yes, sir. I'll arrange for a boy when you are ready, and meantime, I'll ring for a footman to take your bags."
"Excellent. If I may—some tea ... and perhaps dinner to be served early."
"I'll see what Cook can do,"
And now what? He wandered into the parlor and threw himself into a chair by the fireplace. A servant could procure him a mount for tomorrow's ride around the park. Tomorrow afternoon, he'd stroll through the Royal Academy's summer exhibition, and later, he'd find a cricket game or something like that. Public, open, lots of opportunity for conversation.
... Lujan's brother—you'll be welcomed ...
