“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Clive. Constance, I think we should be going.”
“But we’ve not finished eating!” she objected. “And even if we had, I plan to order dessert.”
The builder clicked his fingers to summon the waiter. “The service here is slow today. I shall speak with the owner. M’sieur Nicols and I are, how you say, old chums! I see you later, eh? At your club.” He turned to the baroness. “Madam, if a sweet tooth must be satisfied, then try the madeleines. They are iced with chocolat and hazelnut. Ils sont magnifiques!”
“Madeleines? Is that something new?” she asked hungrily, for the baroness’s appetite for sweets seldom had a day’s rest.
“Oui. Little butter cakes that sit upon the tongue like a beautiful cloud! Henri, the pâtissier, adds brandy, eh? Try them, madam. You will not be disappointed. Enjoy!”
He bowed once more, and then the little builder waddled towards the exit where he joined a younger man, who waved to the baroness. Both he and Urquhart disappeared through the dense crowd of diners.
“Who was that fellow?” her husband asked.
“Which?”
“That slightly built chap by the door. The one who left with Urquhart. I’ve seen him before, but I can’t recall where.”
“Oh, him. It’s Sir Albert Wendaway. Lord Haimsbury’s cousin. We met him at the wedding reception. He and Delia have become friends.”
“Wendaway? I hope it’s not the same Wendaway whose name keeps cropping up at my club. If so, he’s a braggart and a gambler, if not worse. Not the sort of fellow we want around our daughter.”
“I doubt it’s the same man,” she said. “Sir Albert’s a handsome fellow, though his title and lands are hardly worth Delia’s time. One house and only two thousand a year. However, he is cousin to Haimsbury, which makes him useful.”
Wychwright said little else during their meal, and by six, they’d parted company. The baron headed to a series of casual meetings at the Carlton Club, and his wife to a house in Grosvenor Square, where she held court with Urquhart and his imminently useful companion.
6:03 pm – Haimsbury House master suite
Charles Sinclair stared into the mirror, examining the cuts and bruises on his bristled chin. Only one week earlier, he’d dressed in bespoke finery, married the woman of his dreams, and then held her in his arms as they led dance after dance on the ballroom floor of Drummond House. He had no way of knowing that within a few short hours, she’d be taken from him.
Shortly, the inner circle members would gather to discuss the events of that fateful night and decide how to proceed, but Sinclair had no patience for meetings. Instead, he wanted to gather a force of policemen and hit the streets, going from house to house if necessary, to find his wife.
A soft step broke his concentration, and he turned to find Martin Kepelheim standing inside the bedchamber. “I knocked, but you didn’t answer. I’d feared you might have relapsed.”
Charles managed to smile. “No relapse, just frustration. I’ve lost an entire week, and it’s difficult to remain indoors, when I should be out there hunting.”
“Let Paul’s team do the hunting, Charles. I assure you, they have not been idle. Believe me, when I tell you that our earl has left no stone unturned. Do you think he would? He loves her, too.”
“Yes, I know. Forgive my impatience, Martin. It’s just so difficult to let another man do what I should! She’s my wife, my responsibility.”
Kepelheim placed a hand on the marquess’s shoulder. “My friend, you think yourself strong, but you are not. Please, I beg you. Sit for a moment.”
The marquess sighed and took a chair near the bedchamber’s marble fireplace, staring into the fire as he spoke. “It’s difficult to keep still.”
“Yes, I’m sure it is, but it will aid in healing. We’ve a little time before the meeting begins. Perhaps, it will help to talk.”
“That’s kind of you, Martin. I can’t imagine what I’d do without family and friends. Victoria’s doing her best to cheer me. Yesterday, she gave me a collection of Beth’s journals from France. I read a few entries last night. I can almost hear her voice in the words.” He shifted position to offer relief to his bruised body. “As you can see, I’ve left Elizabeth’s chamber for this one. I thought it best to have her room clean and ready for when she’s found.”
“Yes, I noticed this morning that Lord Aubrey had relocated to the next apartment. I’ve always loved this house, Charles, particularly these rooms. The bedchambers are enormous!”
“They are, and Beth’s is even larger than this one.”
“You kept your grandfather’s bed, I see,” he said, pointing to a full tester made of carved mahogany. The arched canopy was softened at the corners by damask curtains in blue and gold silk. “Did you know it was designed and handcrafted by a fellow named Chatsworth? He and your grandfather served in the Peninsula together against Napoleon’s forces.”
“My grandfather must have been fairly young,” Charles noted. “The Peninsula campaign was what? 1810 or so?”
“1807 is when that war officially began, but there were political upheavals for decades leading up to it. Redwing had a hand in those, but then, they’re often involved in warfare.”
“Are they in control of governments?”
“Not directly, but they influence decision makers in ways you’d never expect.”
“How pervasive are they?”
Martin’s brows worked their way upwards as he replied. “Well, now that is a lifetime of study on its own! Think of them as shadow governments, is you will. Each country has its own ruler and cabinet, and not all call themselves Redwing. Only the English speaking countries use the term. If you want a full list of names, I’d be happy to share what MacPherson and I have put together. It has over seventy entries, and within each division are multiple subdivisions. Below those, smaller committees and subcommittees. War and the resulting bloodshed fuel their cabalistic machinery. They are a diabolical lot, Charles. Your grandfather fought many a battle against their battalions. I met the ninth marquess the year he died. I was but a youngster at the time, barely twenty. Did you know that your grandfather rebuilt this house because of the ghosts?”
“Did you just say ghosts?”
Kepelheim’s round face grew serious. “Not humans back from the dead, no, but spiritual entities. The first Haimsbury House was built in the mid-sixteenth century, and some claim the hauntings drove the 4th Marchioness, Katherine Sinclair, mad. I’ve only scant evidence to back up the claim. However, when your grandfather decided to tear down the old and rebuild, he was forced to retain some of the original foundations, as well as the wine and root cellars. The ninth marquess never lacked for funds, of course, but his architect warned that an extinct underground river made it dangerous to delve too deeply and convinced him to leave the foundations and cellars intact. The marquess died the very year this house was finished. You’ll notice motifs throughout that evoke Sinclair history, much of it from France. The fleur de lis is predominant, but also other emblems. Charles, are you aware that your bloodline descends from much more than the Plantagenets and Stuarts?”
“I think James mentioned it once. Why?”
“My friend, when Elizabeth has returned, and our lives regain a sort of normality, I should like to revisit your childhood memories. Your father taught you many things about your heritage, and we need the information that’s stored inside your brilliant mind! Also, there are several scrolls at Rose House that I should fetch for you. Proofs of inheritance and letters patent from both the English and French crowns.”
Sinclair shook his head. “I care nothing for titles, Martin. All I want is Elizabeth. Until I can hold her in my arms, nothing else matters to me.”
“Of course, I’ll let it go for now, but we must speak of it eventually, because it may explain a great deal about Redwing’s plan
s regarding your future children.”
“Beth’s having twins,” Sinclair said suddenly, immediately wondering why he’d blurted it out. “Or at least, I think she is.”
Kepelheim leaned forward in his chair, the firelight flickering across his round cheeks. “How can you possibly know that? She’s not yet two months along. I doubt any physician would make such a claim at this point.”
“No physician did, but I met my daughter in that place, Martin. You and Paul think I dreamt it all, but I didn’t. Both Elizabeth and I were in some hellish land with talking birds and a terrifying maze of stones. My fear is that she’s still there.”
“If you say you were in such a place, then I believe you, Charles. Heaven knows I’ve come across many strange things in my years with the circle! If you were held prisoner, that may explain your prolonged state of unconsciousness, but how did you escape?”
“This watch,” he said, holding up the Sir John Bennett. “The one Beth had engraved for me in Scotland. It stopped, and I tried winding it, but only when Beth touched it, did the watch start ticking, forcing time to advance. That’s when I awoke. I’ve no idea whether or not she escaped at the same time. Don’t you see? If she is also unconscious, then it means she’s ill. We must find her soon!”
“My friend, the Lord knows her whereabouts, and he will bring her home.”
The tailor poured a glass of water from a delicately painted china carafe and handed it to his friend. “Drink this down. You are a man of fierce convictions and seldom heed advice, if it runs contrary to your instincts, but I beg you to take it now. Your injuries require rest and repose. Charles, you nearly died. How can you help her, if your health fails?”
Sinclair drank the water and set the empty glass on a table. “It won’t fail. I’m alive in ten years’ time, which convinces me that no matter how I choose, all will be well.”
“Alive in ten years? I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I, actually, but it’s true. Despite what all of you believe, Martin, I did speak with my daughter. Georgianna Sinclair led me through the stone maze. She and her twin brother Robert will be born in June of next year. They were not a dream. It’s for them that I push myself, not just for their mother, but for our children. I cannot fail them. I will not!”
Kepelheim’s eyes blinked as he tried to sort through this odd confession. “I do not say you dreamt this, but you must admit it is difficult to understand.”
“Yet it happened,” the marquess insisted. “Beth experienced it, too, and when we find her, she’ll tell you her own story. I’ve never been so certain of anything in my life, but my wife is ill. We need to find her soon, Martin, before it’s too late.”
“Yes, and we will, but you must grow stronger to accomplish that task. Have you eaten today?”
“Mrs. Alcorn brought up a bowl of soup about two hours ago.” He wiped at his eyes, straining against fatigue. “I promise to eat well tonight, and I’ll retire early. I just pray I can sleep. Perhaps, my body’s fighting against it. I did sleep an entire week, after all.”
“A coma is hardly restful, Charles.”
“No, I suppose not,” he replied with a slight smile. “Last night, I found myself staring at the ceiling. You’ll probably laugh at how I spent the hours, but I sat inside Beth’s clothes closet.”
The tailor’s greying eyebrows pinched together forming twin furrows of thick flesh above his nose. “That is an odd way to spend one’s time. May I ask why?”
“To be close to her,” he answered softly. “In a way, I feel a little like Samson after Delilah’s treachery. His hair was the source of his strength, and Beth is the source of mine. Without her beside me, I’m scarcely able to think, eat, or sleep. So, I sat in her closet, looking through all her gowns and jewels and reminiscing about when I last saw her wearing them. You can still smell raspberry and vanilla scent on some of them. It’s Beth’s signature soap, milled to her specifications in Paris. I found several bars of it in a linen cupboard, and I placed one beneath my pillow. That’s how I finally fell asleep. Somehow, the scent made it seem as though she lay beside me. I need her, Martin. I’d simply stop breathing without Elizabeth in my life.”
“We will find her,” the tailor promised. “Now, if you’re able, I think Della has a little surprise. She’s practised several new piano arrangements and wants to play them for you.”
The marquess finally managed to smile. “Except for Elizabeth, there is no other person who cheers me like Della Stuart. Thank you, Martin. Thank you for talking to me. You are the best of friends.”
A few moments later, Charles entered the music room to the heartfelt refrain of Auld Lang Syne, played skillfully by Adele Stuart. She’d originally planned to play a Strauss waltz called Rosen auf dem Süden in honour of Rose House, but the duke convinced her that a Scottish air might be more appropriate.
Charles cared not one whit about the selection, but about the hands playing it. He walked to the piano and sat beside her.
“That is a perfect choice,” he whispered, kissing the top of head.
The eleven-year-old threw her arms around him, squeezing tightly. “I’m so very glad you’re all right!” she cried out, her face against his chest. “I’ve been ever so worried.”
“So I understand,” he replied, kissing her hands. “These are very talented fingers. I’m told you sat at my bedside every day. I cannot tell you how much that means to me, Della. I love you very much, little one.”
She wiped her eyes, trying not to cry. “That’s what you call Beth.”
“But also what I call you, if that’s all right.”
She nodded. “Yes, please, but you had me very worried. You’re not ever to get sick again. Not ever! Is that clear?”
He saluted. “As clear as glass, Commissioner Stuart. Will you play me another song?”
“What would you like to hear?”
“Anything, so long as you perform it. I’ll sit here beside you, if that’s all right. I could turn the pages.”
Without warning, her resolve failed, and Della began to cry. “I just want to hug you, Charles. I do love you so very much!” she whispered tightly.
“I love you, too, Della Marie. Very much. Will you help me to the chair, then, if you don’t need a page-turner? I’m a little wobbly on my feet yet and could use a shoulder.”
Charles had no trouble walking, but he sensed that Adele wanted to keep near him, and he was right. The girl very seriously put her slender arm around his waist to provide support.
“Lean on me,” she told him. “Once you’re safely in the chair, then I shall bring you water, if you like.”
“Not just yet. Mr. Kepelheim insisted I drink an entire glass upstairs. Perhaps, you might read to me? I understand that you’ve been reading that Holmes story from last year’s Beeton’s. I fear that I slept through it all. Would it be asking too much for you to read it again?”
Adele’s face lit up. “I’ve put the copy with my music. It’s right over here!”
She dashed to the lidded basket where she kept many volumes of piano music and found the Christmas annual from the previous year. “Mr. Holmes is very interesting,” she whispered as he lifted her onto his lap. “He reminds me of you, Cousin Charles, though he’s not nearly so nice. But he solves crimes and mysteries, just as you do. You mustn’t worry. Beth will be all right. I promise. We’ve all been praying and praying. The Lord won’t let anything happen to her. Mr. Baxter says she’s in the Lord’s mighty hand, and there’s no safer place.”
“You’re very wise, little one. That reminds me of a psalm.”
“Which one? Is it about the Lord’s hand?”
“No, it’s about wisdom. Psalm Eight, I think. How does it go again? Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings hast thou ordained strength because of thine enemies.”
“I like that one,” Adele told him. “Does it m
ean that God gives children wisdom that adults lack?”
He laughed. “Yes, I think he does. Next summer, Elizabeth and I shall have a baby, and I think she will be quite remarkable.”
“Or he,” Adele told him. “Babies come in two varieties, you know. It might be a boy.”
“Or it might be both,” he answered with a broad smile.
“How can it be both?” Della giggled. “That’s quite impossible!”
“Not if there are two babies.”
“Can there be two?” she asked him, snuggling close.
“Sometimes a woman gives birth to twins. We’ll see what happens, shall we?”
The eleven-year-old found the answer satisfying and opened the Christmas periodical, beginning to read sweetly.
As Charles listened, he considered the topic of children. Twins. The very word caused him to smile, and he drew Adele close, thinking about Georgie’s comment that by 1899 Adele would be married and bringing her own baby to their Christmas celebration.
Out of the mouths of babes...
Charles shut his eyes, listening to the fictional narrative of Dr. John Watson and thinking of his abandoned desk at Scotland Yard—and how a letter penned by Elizabeth in October had forever altered his life.
The memory made him smile, and he fell asleep, thinking of the moment inside Queen Anne House library, when a poor policeman had dared to kiss a duchess.
Chapter Seventeen
7:01 pm
Charles was awoken by the gentle hand of Cornelius Baxter, who informed the startled marquess that the inner circle had assembled. At one minute past the hour, Sinclair entered the library to applause and humbly took his customary seat.
“No, son,” Drummond told him. “You’re leader of the circle now. Your chair is at the head of the table.”
“You’re sure, sir? But you’re the head of our family.”
“Yes, but you’re the principal guardian of our girl. And the elder heir of the twins. Sit, Nephew. Sit!”
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