The Bartered Brides (Elemental Masters)

by Mercedes Lackey

  They arrived just in time for what, according to the programme, was a “fairy dance” by the ballet. Nan rather thought that Puck would be rolling on the ground laughing to see what the silly “Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve” thought were “fairies”—these long-legged girls with gauzy skirts and ridiculously tiny wings at the small of their backs. But the music was good and the dancing was very good. Caro did not put in an appearance, but Nan actually expected her to stay invisible.

  Act followed act, and Nan found herself happily engaged. The Alhambra really was living up to its reputation as a first-class music hall, and of course, the advantage to coming to a music hall was that if a particular act was not to your taste, it didn’t matter, because in a few minutes, there would be another act along. The orchestra was exceptional, something Nan noticed particularly, since she preferred instrumental music over vocal.

  Sarah much preferred vocal music, which puzzled Nan a little. If I’d been used and manipulated by a semi-Elemental Opera Diva, I think that would have put me right off singing. So while some fellow bellowed that “Maaaaaany brave heeaaaaaarts are asleeeeeep in the deeeeep,” she amused herself by looking around at the Alhambra’s opulent interior. Chiefly red and gilt, she was fairly sure the owners fondly supposed it to be the epitome of Moroccan decor. Having been in Morocco, she begged to differ, but that was of no matter. It was attractive, and certainly not as overwhelming in its intent to impress as some other music halls with their baroque interiors.

  In the interval, she and Sarah remained in their seats while those around them made a stampede for the refreshment salon. With the seats around them mostly empty, Nan suddenly felt a breath of cold on her neck, and heard Caro whisper, “This is amazing! Thank you so very much!”

  Nan glanced over at Sarah, who smiled. “You’re welcome. We’re glad you are enjoying it.”

  “Every bit. But I haven’t been idle. I’ve asked the spirits here to send our need for information onward. Leicester Square is quite some distance from your flat, and it seemed like a good opportunity to pass on our request.”

  Nan glanced over her shoulder, but Caro remained invisible—prudent, to Nan’s way of thinking. But she was touched that in the midst of her first real outing ever, Caro had thought about being helpful. Very helpful, in fact. “Thank you,” she murmured. “Now I think you have earned the right to just enjoy the rest of the program.” She glanced at the program in her hands. “It seems the second half is devoted entirely to a short ballet, La Fille Mal Gardee.”

  “The Girl Who Was Poorly Supervised? Well that certainly sounds promising!” Caro laughed. “She sounds like a very naughty girl indeed!”

  “I believe that’s the case,” was all Nan got to say, when their seatmates began making their way back, having fortified themselves with cigarettes, orange squash, lemonade, or something much stronger.

  The ballet was everything Nan had hoped for. She had not expected a ballet to form the entire second half of the program, but evidently there were more than enough enthusiasts to support such a program. She was glad, however, that they had not chosen to attend at the height of summer. It was warm enough by the end of the production that she and Sarah elected to make use of the fans provided for free by the management, and they weren’t the only ones.

  As the rush to leave began, they remained. For one thing, it would give Caro a little more time to interrogate the local ghosts. For another, there was no point in getting caught in the crush. They wouldn’t be able to get a cab any faster.

  They were nearly the last people out of the balcony . . . and Nan suddenly felt uneasy, though she had no idea why.

  “Let’s go down to the main floor, and take our time getting out,” she suggested. “I’ve got a funny feeling. . . .”

  Sarah didn’t object. Instead of making for the exit, they took the stairs down to the refreshment salon and managed to convince the weary staff to serve them a last lemonade, which they sipped until Nan’s feeling of unease passed. When they left the theater, there didn’t seem to be anything untoward going on, and Sarah gave Nan a questioning look as they hailed a passing hansom. The driver had had a disappointed look on his face; he’d probably thought he’d missed a chance of getting a last fare. He cheered right up when Nan hailed him, pulled up his horse, and jumped down off the box to open the door for them—something hansom drivers didn’t often do.

  Nan gave him the address, and off they went. “I don’t know,” she said, in answer to Sarah’s unspoken question. “I just had the feeling that we really needed to delay going out.”

  “You don’t suppose . . . you-know-who’s people were actually waiting for us?” Sarah began, when the cab began to slow, then stop.

  The driver opened the little door above them. “Beggin’ yer pardon, leddies, but there seem t’be a narsty accident ahead. Any objections if Oi takes a long way round it?”

  “Not at all,” Nan assured him, and while he carefully backed his horse and began the tedious business of getting the cab turned around, she decided to have a look.

  “Nasty accident” was something of an understatement. Just as she stuck her head out of the window, a horse began screaming in pain. There were several horses down in their traces that she could see, and at least two cabs, one of them a growler, on their sides. A delivery van and an omnibus were tangled up in the mess, and . . . an automobile. The driver of the last, identifiable by his duster, driving cap and goggles, was being interrogated by two bobbies.

  “Bloody fools in them mechanical demons,” the driver said to no one in particular. “That bloody demmed thing caused the wreck, take my word for ’t! Ourta be outlawed, that they should, whizzin’ about faster than God meant man t’go an’ no respeck. No respeck at-all!”

  And the feeling of tension inside Nan broke. She sat back in the seat, and motioned to Sarah to have a look for herself. By the time Sarah leaned back, the driver had gotten the horse and cab turned around.

  Sarah turned to Nan, wide-eyed. “Do you think—”

  “I don’t know,” Sarah admitted. “But if we had left a little earlier we might well have been in the middle of that. That’s reason enough for a premonition.”

  “I suppose so,” Sarah admitted, and licked her lips. “You know what is the worst about this? If Moriarty’s people wish to do us harm, they know what we look like. We have no idea what they look like. They could be anyone.”

  “And we could equally be struck down by a disease or a perfectly accidental accident,” Nan reminded her, to try and coax her out of the collywobbles. “And we wouldn’t know where that came from either!”

  “Well, aren’t you cheerful,” Sarah replied, with spirit. Nan smiled, having accomplished her goal.

  6

  “Well, that went off splendidly.” Spencer did not rub his hands together in the manner of a comic villain, but he felt as if the gesture was justified. He had taken a long time to plan this, there had been several dry runs, and the result was perfect.

  “It’s a good thing my motor is being replaced,” the man next to him on the seat of the hired carriage sighed. “She cost me a fortune.” He had taken off his goggles, driving gauntlets, and cap, but still wore his duster against the chill.

  “And now you’ll be able to replace your machine with a better one,” Spencer reminded him. “I must say, allow me to congratulate you on that bout of excellent driving. I really did believe your motorcar was out of control.”

  “That’s why the Boss always used me to stage accidents. I was good with a horse. I’m better with a motor.” He smirked. “That’s one cabby that’ll never pick up a fare again.”

  “He shouldn’t have been so friendly with Sherlock Holmes.” Spencer smiled thinly. “And that is one less ally for John Watson to call on. Oh, by the way, here.” He reached into his coat, and handed the fellow the envelope full of banknotes he pulled out.

  “And that’s how you do business. Payment on delivery. I always did like that about the Boss.” The fellow g
ave him a sideways glance.

  “And I assure you, things haven’t changed. As you can see.” Spencer waited while he opened the envelope and counted the notes.

  “Seems right. I can get off here,” the driver said, pointing to a corner ahead.

  Spencer knocked on the ceiling of the carriage to tell the driver to stop, and the two parted without a word.

  And that . . . bothered him. He’d hired the man to stage fatal accidents before, on behalf of his employer, and the driver had always been very chatty. This time. . . .

  Well, perhaps it had been the loss of an extremely expensive motorcar. In the past, when he’d staged accidents with horses, he’d made sure to use a broken-down old nag. He’d drug them to give them “pep,” knowing the drug would finish them off, but that they’d be put down for broken legs when he was finished with them anyway. But there was no way to do that with a motorcar. They were either in working order, or they were not.

  And it had to be an out-of-control motorcar at that spot. It was the only way he could give a glancing blow to the hansom cab that would send it over in such a way that the driver would be thrown and killed.

  Still . . .

  This time their clever driver hadn’t wanted to talk over how he’d done the trick, the satisfying crack of the cabby’s head splitting open on the curb, how he’d gulled the police into believing it had all been a horrible accident. And how cleverly he’d driven, so that all the bystanders were willing to swear he was telling the truth.

  This time . . . nothing.

  And to Spencer, that could be an indication of trouble to come. More restiveness in what was left in the ranks. Concern over whether he had what it would take to keep them out of the eye of the law. Never mind that it was their own skills that kept them out of the eye of the law—and their own carelessness that drew the law’s eye toward them. The eye of the pack always went to the leader.

  And now he was the putative “leader,” someone who had always been in the Boss’s shadow. They had never seen him do much of anything.

  He understood all of this. He just didn’t know quite how to instill their confidence in him.

  Well . . . perhaps in a few weeks, that would be something he no longer needed to concern himself about.

  The hired carriage stopped; with a start, he realized it had reached his doorstep. He stepped out, tipped the driver, and turned to go up the stairs.

  To his pleasure, the delightful scent of steak-and-kidney pie greeted him. He hung his coat and hat in the hall and headed for the kitchen.

  And to his surprise, the girl was there, dressed neatly in one of the white gowns Mrs. Kelly had gotten out for him. She didn’t jump up from her chair when he entered, but she did get up quickly, and shyly presented him with a pair of well-made stockings.

  He searched his memory for her name. “Why Peg!” he said, feigning pleasure. “What a delightful surprise! I had no idea you were making these for me!”

  Her pale cheeks flushed, and she cast down her eyes. “Yer’ve bin very kind t’me, sor,” she whispered.

  He quickly ran through a number of things to say, and settled on, “It is easy to be kind to you, Peg. You are sweet and good.” He rather thought she’d respond to that better than compliments about her looks, which to her mind had only gotten her into trouble.

  She flushed again—with pleasure, he thought, and sat down again. He took his place at the table, Mrs. Kelly brought the pie, bread, butter and plates, and they ate mostly in silence. Peg said nothing. Mrs. Kelly mentioned a few trivial matters, such as what he wanted for dinner and supper the next few nights. It occurred to Spencer that this was quite the most pleasant dinner he’d ever had with a girl present. She was coming along nicely.

  “Yew c’n run along, ducks,” Mrs. Kelly said, when the girl had finished and didn’t ask for more servings. “Yew needs t’git yer strenth back.”

  “Thenkee, Miz Kelly,” Peg said in her near-whisper, and left the table, presumably to go back to her room.

  When she was gone, Spencer lifted an eyebrow at his confederate. “At least she’s no longer licking plates.”

  Kelly barked a laugh. “Give ’er ’nother two days. Get yer fake parson ready t’come over th’ day arter. When yew ain’t ’ere, all she c’n talk about is yew. So ’andsome! So nice! Loverly voice!” She snickered. “Fair besotted.”

  “Do you think my line of Jesus sent me to protect you will work?” he asked.

  “Like honey fer a fly.” Kelly nodded her head wisely, then clapped her hand to her forehead. “Oh! That ’minds me. That poet-feller come round and left a note fer ye.”

  She jumped up from her chair and came back with a sealed envelope. He scanned it quickly, and smiled. “My contact has another possibility. I’m to meet him tomorrow night at his salon. We’ll have supper early; these artists drink like fish, and I’ll need something to soak up all the liquor I can’t avoid drinking.”

  “Hrrm. Welsh Rabbit, then,” Kelly replied. “An’ tea ’stead of wine. Don’ think the gel likes wine anyways, but give ’er tea with plenty ’f sugar an’ she’s ’appy as a lamb in clover.”

  He laughed, thinking how one of his favorite dishes was a nice leg of lamb. . . .

  * * *

  The “salon,” as Hugo Werlicke styled his evening gatherings, was every bit as boring and pretentious as Spencer had thought it would be. This would be a “non-occult” night, so none of Werlicke’s hangers-on with pretensions of “powers” were present. Instead it was mostly poets and novelists who spoke more about poetry and books than they actually wrote, artists who were indifferently talented but belonged to families more than wealthy enough to indulge them, and a scattering of “models,” who generally did not hold still when they were naked. However, Spencer had to admit that Werlicke’s accommodations were superior and luxurious, and his taste in wines and brandies was second to none.

  Spencer surveyed the crowd, indolently lounging about a sitting room in which virtually everything upholstered had been done in calfskin or red velvet and everything that could be gilded had been, and spotted Werlicke just as his host spotted him. Werlicke said something to the two people who had been leaning over the arms of their chairs to speak with him and got up languidly.

  Werlicke always did everything languidly.

  He was a very beautiful young man, and although he encouraged the dissipations of others, he himself was surprisingly controlled in his indulgences. “I don’t have a portrait to absorb my sins,” he had once told Spencer, laughing, when Spencer remarked on his habits. What that was supposed to mean, Spencer had no idea. Some fantastic novel or other, he supposed. He seldom read outside of his occult interests.

  From his appearance and the sinuous way he had of walking, although Spencer had more than once found him enjoying the embraces of one of the many “models” that seemed to spend a great deal of time in his house, Spencer suspected he enjoyed the embraces of young men as well. Not that it mattered to Spencer. What did matter that he was utterly reliable, trading contact with potential . . . prospects . . . for certain genuine occult secrets. Werlicke had ambition. He was the sort that Spencer would never have as an apprentice even if he’d a need to take one, but had no problem with giving the odd bit of information to.

  “He’s over there,” Werlicke said, indicating the darkest corner of the opulent drawing room with his eyes. “Peter Hughs. He’s heartbroken. His little dolly flew off to the embraces of an officer of the King’s Guard, his book of poetry has had nothing but bad reviews, and . . . well he’s always been brooding and melancholy, but . . .” He shrugged. “Let’s just say he’s indulged in my opium for the first time, and found it very much to his taste. I think he’ll do.”

  “Family?” Spencer asked.

  “None. Dear Papa disinherited him and threw him out. Well, Mama keeps his bank account full, but only on condition he stays away, stays out of the newspapers, and doesn’t ruin their daughters’ prospects for marriage, or corrupt the morals
of his brother.”

  Spencer smiled thinly. If this fellow worked out, he’d become so anonymous he might just as well have journeyed off to live in Tahiti amongst the natives. Presumably Mama and Papa would be pleased with such a result. Very probably they were hoping he’d catch pneumonia this winter and have the courtesy to die. He’d seen more than enough parents like that, for whom children were mere commodities; cared for according to their worth for as long as they were useful and discarded as soon as they were not.

  Most of his brides, for instance.

  He helped himself to a bottle of brandy and a pair of glasses from the sideboard and headed straight for the young man, who had driven off the last of his companions with his melancholy. “You look like a man who could use a drink,” he said, thrusting one of the glasses at Hughs, virtually forcing him to take it, lest he be considered impolite. Spencer deftly extracted the stopper from the decanter of brandy with one hand and poured a generous portion into both their glasses. “Why don’t you tell me your troubles?” he continued. “The worst that will happen is that I’ll get bored and find a girl.”

  Peter stared at him for a moment, then committed sacrilege by downing half the glass of brandy without tasting it and uttered a bleak-sounding laugh. “Why not? I’ve driven off everyone else here tonight.”

  Hughs essentially repeated everything Werlicke had related, but with more detail. If Peter’s family despised him, well, he despised them even more as crass money-grubbers and society-climbers. He had invented an entirely new system of symbolism for his poems, where scents expressed emotions, and none of the fool critics had even tried to understand it. And as for women! He did not have enough negative things to say about them. They passed over intellectuals in favor of muscles, a uniform, and a moustache. They thought they were owed everything, yet gave nothing. They played at being helpless, when all the time they were the ones in control. And whenever they broke things off with a fellow, everyone wondered what was wrong with him, and didn’t bother to consider that the one in the wrong could have been her. And then there was the way they’d lead a fellow on, just using him as a placeholder until a muscle-bound handsome face came along.