by Liz Carlyle
Lazonby was already shaking out toothpowder. “Ah, you are a master of the understatement, Padre!”
As Sutherland launched into the inevitable lecture, Lazonby carried on, scrubbing up the powder and brushing his teeth, scarcely able to hear any of it. But he said nothing. Sutherland was entitled to his rant. The poor fellow had worried much on his account.
The scold was cut short, however, when Horsham entered with three footmen toting massive brass cans of hot water in either hand. The new valet seemed to have the gift of prescience himself—either that, or just bloody good timing.
Lazonby watched them pour it out, then dropped his sheet to the floor and climbed into the tub, savoring for a moment the warmth of the water as it surged round him.
But it could not last. Peace never did.
“You may as well come in,” he called to the Preost through the door. “I wouldn’t cheat you of the joy you take in thoroughly raking me.”
Sutherland appeared on the threshold. “Be serious, laddie,” he said, setting one shoulder to the doorframe, watching as Lazonby unwrapped his bandaged hand. “You are more than a Guardian. You have the Gift. And you must be ever so careful with it. The Fraternitas can ill afford to hide you away in Africa again when you might be needed here.”
Lazonby delayed what would have been a snappish response by scooping up great handfuls of water and sluicing it over his head. “The greatest gift I have,” he finally said, “is the gift of good friends who care about me. And I thank you. But we’ve had this discussion a thousand times, and by God, I don’t mean to have it again.”
“Rance—” the Preost began.
Lazonby scooped more water, then regarded the Preost grimly through strands of wet hair. “I’m not my mother, Sutherland,” he interjected. “Not remotely. And I’m not mad—well, not yet, at any rate.”
“You are not mad,” said Sutherland calmly. “You never will be. And poor Moria was not mad, either. She just . . . wore out with it.”
“The Gift,” said Lazonby flatly. “Admit it. It slowly drained her, and I finished her off. And all of it blighted my father’s life.”
Sutherland did not answer for a time. Then he puffed air through his cheeks and said, “Aye, in some ways. But your father was a Guardian, Rance, as you are. He knew his duty to Moria. But he chose to marry her. Not just to keep her safe but because he loved her.”
Lazonby, however, was not about to discuss the tragedy of his parents’ marriage. “And I do not gamble.” He seized the soap and began to scrub with rather more vigor than the job required. “I do not even play at hazard, a game of pure and utter chance. I do not so much as bet on whether the sun will rise. Not because I know anything but because I do not care to be called a cheat again.”
“It is not cheating to know what is in a man’s heart, Rance,” said Sutherland softly. “To be able to sense what a man feels or fears in the black pit of his soul. But it does give you an edge at the table, my boy.”
“An unfair advantage, you mean.”
“There is no other kind.” The Preost’s voice was firm but gentle. “And had you not spent half your life denying the Gift was yours—even in this small, subtle way—then years upon years of tragedy might have been spared.”
It was an argument they had had so often that Lazonby had lost count. Hell, it wasn’t even an argument. He let the soap fall with a loud plop and slid into the depths of the hot water until it surged round his ears.
Sutherland was right—or partly so. Now, at the seemingly ancient age of five-and-thirty, Lazonby understood. He might have dismissed it to Anisha in the carriage all those months ago, but in his heart, he knew. He was not like other men—not most of them, anyway.
Did he have the Gift? Not a Gift such as that which Ruthveyn and Geoff possessed. Not remotely like that hellish thing which had gripped his mother—and thank God for small mercies.
But like a dozen generations of his mother’s Scottish ancestors, he carried it strong in his blood. And like most all Welham men born in the Sign of Fire and War, he had sworn to guard it, and all who possessed it. At the age of fifteen, he had been marked for it and his duty laid out before him.
The duty he could have refused. But the Gift—if he had it—that, no man could refuse. It came from God. Or the devil.
Did he have it?
A million times he had asked that question. And a million times he’d reassured himself that he merely possessed good instincts. That he could smell anger and fear and duplicity on a man’s skin. Or that he could see those same emotions in the small flicker of a man’s eyes, or the way he twisted his mouth or twitched his cheek.
Did he have it?
He had something. Though he possessed nothing in the way of prescience, he could read some people, some of the time. A rare few spewed emotion like blood from a gaping wound. Others merely seeped or gave up nothing at all.
As a young man he’d believed that everyone knew this. But they did not. And this difference had been enough to make him a damned fine card player—the finest, perhaps, that the hells of London had ever seen. And he was an even better soldier, especially in close combat. Gauthier had often remarked that he had the reflexes of a cat and the strike of a cobra, for he’d known instinctively what his enemy’s next move would be. Known it not in a calculated way but in a way that had found him reacting to it even before he’d known what he’d been reacting to.
Le serpent de la mort.
Or so Henri Gauthier had often called him. And that skill had kept Lazonby alive, sometimes even when he’d sooner have died. But the will to fight and survive and even to thrive surged so strong inside him that even Lazonby himself could not quell it. It was the Sign of Fire and War. It was why he was what he was—and just as it was with Lazonby’s reactive instincts, no thought or choice was given to it. It was primal.
He sat up in the tub with a loud slosh! and let his shoulders sag.
“Well,” said Sutherland, coming away at last from the doorframe. “I should leave you now. Will I see you in St. James later tonight? Safiyah’s got the chef roasting a joint.”
“Can’t say.” Lazonby fished the soap from the water, then lifted his gaze to his old friend’s. “I’m sorry, Sutherland. I’ve a frightful morning head.”
Sutherland’s smile was rueful. “No apology needed.”
“Aye, it is,” Lazonby returned. “But don’t fret, for there’s no gaming at Ned’s this time of day, and I wouldn’t play even if he’d let me—which he won’t, for he’s suspicious of the whole lot of us now.”
“Then why go? Not neighborly concern, I’m confident.”
Lazonby managed to laugh. “No, it just occurs to me that Ned might know something about Peveril’s death, or the game at Leeton’s that long-ago night. He might have heard something over the years. Something he discounted, perhaps, or did not grasp the significance of.”
“Quartermaine is well connected, ’tis true.” The Preost cast his gaze up, as if musing upon something. “But he cannot be any older than you.”
“Considerably younger,” Lazonby agreed. “But I also mean to ask him about Coldwater. I see him sometimes, loitering at the club’s entrance with that scurvy dog of a doorman.”
“Pinkie Ringgold?”
“Aye, Pinkie-Ring.” Lazonby snorted. “And we know he can be bought. So perhaps I should buy him? Or at the very least, bribe him to tell me whatever he knows about Coldwater and the Chronicle?”
Sutherland mulled it over, toying absently with his watch fob. “What about Leeton himself?” he suggested tentatively. “Would he see you, do you think?”
“I daresay he would, but what’s left that wasn’t said all those years ago?” said Lazonby. “He gave his testimony, and it was of little value to me—or to the Crown. Besides, he’s an honest businessman now. I rather doubt he’ll wish to revisit his inglorious past as a secret hell owner.”
“But is he honest?” asked Sutherland.
“Lord, no,” said Laz
onby. “Deceitful as the day is long. How could he be otherwise, in that sort of work? But I never actually sensed much emotion from the man.”
“Aye, so you’ve said.”
“In any case, it was a private game between Peveril and me, and pure chance we were playing at Leeton’s at all. Moreover, it was Leeton who warned me the police had come round. No, he’s done all he can, I expect.”
“Aye, you’re right.” Sutherland smiled absently and turned as if to go. “Well, good luck with Quartermaine, my boy. I’ll hope to see you at dinner.”
“We’ll see,” Lazonby said from the tub.
Eyes closed against the soap, he listened as Sutherland’s heavy tread sounded toward the door, then reversed and came back again.
“Oh, and Rance?” Sutherland said from the threshold.
Lazonby’s hackles went up at once. He had known there had been something besides Ruthveyn’s letter setting the Preost on edge. “What is it?”
“I’ve instituted a bit of a change down at the St. James Society,” said the Preost. “One with which I shall require your help.”
Lazonby sluiced off the soap and opened his eyes. “Help?” he asked suspiciously. “In what way?”
Sutherland’s smile was tight. “I’ve initiated Miss de Rohan.”
Lazonby looked at him blankly. “What—?”
“Yesterday at the train station in Colchester,” the Preost said. “I finished our ceremony. The initiation. She’s one of us now.”
For a moment, Lazonby could only stare. “The hell you say,” he finally managed.
But Sutherland’s countenance had taken on a mulish look. “Aye, I do say,” he replied. “As of—oh, twenty-nine hours ago—Miss Anaïs de Rohan is now a Guardian, and a fully fledged brother in the Fraternitas Aureae Crucis—like generations of her people before her.”
Lazonby shot him a warning look. “Oh, Sutherland . . . ,” he said slowly. “Oh, this will not go over well.”
The Preost shrugged. “Can’t say as I care,” he replied. “I know the girl’s work, and I know God’s will when I see it. Aye, the lads will kick up a bit, to be sure. But you are a founder, so it falls to you to ram it through and make them grow accustomed to it.”
“Me? Why me?”
“Because you sponsored her,” said Sutherland flatly. “And rightly so, as it happens. But you thought it a lark, didn’t you? Now it has backfired, my boy. She was trained and sent by our best blade in Tuscany. She brought us his documentation and she said all the right words. Now she has passed a trial by fire in Belgium. Only a Preost can initiate a new member, and I’ve done it.”
“Yes, but Sutherland, they will—”
“No, she’s in, and she’s to stay in,” Sutherland interjected, “or the lot of you will answer to me—and, I daresay, to Bessett.”
“The devil!” said Lazonby again, for it seemed the only response.
“Not the devil, laddie,” said the Preost grimly, “but the good Lord. May His will ever be done.”
Lazonby was still sitting in the water, eyes wide, when his bedchamber door thumped shut. Almost immediately, however, it opened again to admit the efficient Horsham, who swept the untouched dinner tray away, then returned to lay out the shaving things.
Well. Anaïs de Rohan had got what she wanted. She was a Guardian. A brother, as it were.
Inwardly, Lazonby shrugged. What was it to him, after all? Indeed, he had great admiration for the lady’s mettle, despite his snide comments to Bessett. It was mere chance that her file had come to him for approval, and sheer perversity that had made him approve it and pass her on for initiation.
The initiation ceremony, however, had not got far. Not, apparently, until yesterday. But Sutherland was right—she was indisputably qualified.
Still, a female . . .
But that thought merely served to return him to his more pressing problem.
“Horsham?” Lazonby called through the door. “What do you know about flowers?”
The valet lifted his head from his work. “A bit, sir.”
“What sort of flowers does a fellow send to a friend?” he asked. “A lady friend whom he has—well, inadvertently insulted?”
Horsham drifted to the door. “Yellow roses should suffice, sir. For both friendship and regret.”
Friendship and regret.
That seemed to sum the whole bloody mess up pretty thoroughly. . . .
Moreover, he liked roses. And ladies liked roses. He put himself in Horsham’s hands. “Excellent,” he said. “Fetch me some, won’t you?”
Horsham gave a little bow. “Certainly, sir,” he said. “Shall you require rather a lot of them?”
“Oh, aye, a rude plenty.” Lazonby snatched his towel and rose, streaming, from the water. “How did you know?”
The faintest hint of humor flicked over the valet’s face and was quickly veiled again. “Oh, just a guess, sir.”
Chapter 4
I pray you, do not fall in love with me,
For I am falser than vows made in wine.
William Shakespeare, As You Like It
The afternoon had turned quite warm by the time Lazonby dressed, penned his note of apology, and called for his cabriolet. Despite the faint dread simmering inside him, he drove up to Mayfair at a brisk clip, savoring the feel of the spring breeze against his face, having long ago learned in prison never to take such small pleasures for granted.
As he turned up Park Lane, however, he began to reconsider his strategy with regard to Lady Anisha. It would have been better, perhaps, to have sent one of the footmen. He had told himself that Ruthveyn’s house was practically on the way to St. James—which it was, he supposed, if one preferred the long way round. And just as his newfound dread blossomed into grave reluctance, Lazonby had the good fortune to spy Higgenthorpe, Ruthveyn’s butler, striding some distance up the pavement carrying a shallow basket filled with what looked like small, misshapen parsnips.
Ah, there was his out!
Drawing at once to the curb, Lazonby leapt down, his groom following suit at the rear, the wrapped cone of flowers cradled in the crook of his elbow.
“Drive round to Adams Mews, Jacobs,” he said, taking the bundle from the servant. “I’ll be but a few moments.”
Higgenthorpe had already crossed over Mount Street and made the turn. Hastening up Park Lane after him, Lazonby wove between the oncoming pedestrians—ladies twirling parasols, mostly, chattering arm in arm, and drifting up from Mayfair in the direction of Oxford Street, doubtless for an afternoon’s shopping.
It seemed foolish to chase after a butler, but Anisha’s sitting room sat just above the front door and she had a bad habit of glancing out to observe who came and went. There was no need to see her; indeed, he did not wish to. What further did they have to say to one another, save for his making an abject apology? Her scorn yesterday had made her position plain. And Higgenthorpe, Lazonby reasoned, obviously meant to go in through the servants’ entrance.
Ruthveyn’s butler, however, had a block’s lead and legs nearly as long as Lazonby’s. Higgenthorpe crossed Park Street, then vanished by turning up the alleyway. A few yards further along, Lazonby heard what could only be the back gate clattering shut behind the fellow.
But Ruthveyn’s garden, as Lazonby recalled, was deep, the path long. Reaching the gate just as Higgenthorpe started up the steps to the back door, Lazonby opened his mouth to call after him, but just then a flash of motion caught his eye.
Anisha.
Lazonby went perfectly still.
She sat in the small arbor at the easterly edge of Ruthveyn’s garden, turned slightly away from him, her head bent to some sort of task. Through the sprays of yellow forsythia that swayed gently round the latticework, he could easily make out her smooth, shining cap of inky hair, for Anisha rarely wore a hat. She hated them, in fact, and thought them a strange English affectation.
It was one of the things he liked best about her, he realized.
Not
her contempt for hats but her quiet disdain for conventions she found foolish.
And when she lifted her hand to brush back a loose wisp of hair, he wished, suddenly and acutely, that he were a different sort of man. That his life had turned out differently. Or that he had never left Westmorland as a hotheaded young fool and set out for the excitement of Town.
He had been but eighteen years old and truly had not grasped the fact that a man’s misjudgments could follow him the whole of his life. Despite the visions of evil that had haunted his mother and his own rigorous training as a Guardian, he had wanted to escape; to blot out his own secret fears with wretched excess. Young, wealthy, and charming, he’d believed the world his oyster to seize, and had waded out into those dangerous currents after it with a naïveté that now astounded his older, wiser self.
Just then Anisha lifted her chin and laughed. Her laugh was light and always put him in mind of tiny bells. Tiny, elegant bells.
He realized then that he was still standing at her gate like a startled stag, simply staring—and further, that Anisha was not alone. Indeed, at that very moment she stood and turned, as if to step back onto the meandering garden path. And when she froze, he knew that he had been seen.
“Lazonby—?” Her voice rang out across the garden, sharp in the spring air.
A pity he had not gone up the front steps and rung the bell like a gentleman ought.
A pity he was such a fool.
But there was nothing to be done now save brazen it through.
“Lady Anisha!” He leaned over the gate. “Pardon the intrusion. I thought I heard your voice round back.”
It was an obvious lie, for the house was massive and the wind blowing north, but she seemed not to heed it and came down the steps, leading someone by the hand. “Do lift the latch and come in,” she called out. “Look, I have had a visitor. I think perhaps you know her?”
A second lady followed from the arbor—and even at a distance, she was easily recognizable.
