It was Mr. Hamilton, announcing Archibald McAllister. At Kelan’s nod, he disappeared and reappeared a few minutes later to usher the man into the library.
The mismatched clothes, misshapen bowler and scuffed belchers were gone, replaced by the same anonymous suit he’d worn at Euston Station. The lads Kelan kept referring to weren’t really lads at all. Archibald had to be at least forty, hair the colour of porous red brick burnt with flecks of ash, and built as solid as a house.
Lily watched, with the same amazement of this morning at the station, as the striking character blended into the décor of cherry wood at his back and the brocade upholstery of the chair he sank into. It was in the way he moved; in the way he carried himself. If there’d been a few more people in the room, he would have gone unnoticed
“Ye have a weasel in Westminster,” Archibald told Kelan, getting straight to the point. “The demon met a man in Devil’s Acre and Liam followed him back ta the Peer’s Entrance.”
Lily said nothing about her own ethereal trip to the slum. Her perspective added no further insight and she didn’t want to derail the conversation to the benefits and deficiencies of her demon blood.
“Possibly a contact established previously by Timothkin,” Kelan said. “One doesn’t have to look far to find a landed lord with pockets to let.”
Lily declined an offer of refreshment and Kelan brought two glasses and the decanter of whiskey over, settling onto the sofa beside her.
“The exchange finished a’fore we could get close enough ta hear,” Archibald went on. “But whatever the demon was told, it led them ta Claridge’s near on an hour ago.”
Lily blinked in surprise. Mr. and Mrs. Claridge had recently bought the Mivart and extended the hotel on Brooke Street with their adjoining lodgings. The newly renovated Claridge’s enjoyed patronage from royalty and heads of state across Europe. “Did they take a room at Claridge’s?”
“Bah,” Archibald guffawed. “Didna make it past the front door porter, those two.” He reached forward to collect the glass Kelan had filled and pushed over. “But there’s where it becomes interesting. One o’ them snuck in by way of a baggage cart and set fire ta the coat room.”
“Dear Lord,” Lily gasped. “Was anyone hurt?”
He sent her a puzzled look, as if that were the least of anyone’s problems. “I dinna think so.”
In other words, he hadn’t bothered to look. She turned a glare on Kelan. This, right here, was the type of consequence she’d feared. She played meek and mild to his elusive chase for higher understanding while demons ploughed a path of mindless devastation.
He met her glare with a raised brow. “Stop racking up bodies, Lily. An outcry would have reached my ears by now if the situation had escalated beyond a misdemeanour or harmless accident. Half the foreign dignitaries gathered for Queen Victoria’s trade convention are staying at Claridge’s ”
Lily let out a long breath. “I don’t suppose that’s a coincidence?”
“Have you ever met a coincidence that lived up to its name under closer scrutiny?” He ran a hand through his hair as his eyes went to Archibald. “Let me guess… They slipped upstairs during the commotion?”
Archibald emptied the contents of his glass before shaking his head. “While all hands were attending ta the fire, the demon took advantage of the unmanned reception desk ta familiarise itself with the guest register.”
“They’re looking for designated rooms,” Kelan said.
Lily saw her dim chance of successfully protesting the demon reprieve catch a tail wind and fly away altogether. Once again, Kelan’s gut had predicted right on target. The demons had come to town to cause mischief amongst the trade negotiations, most likely to stir a dirigible fever.
“I left them biding time in the square on a park bench at the end of the road,” Archibald said.
“Waiting for persons of interest to return to the hotel,” Kelan speculated. “Or waiting for them to leave.”
Lily’s heart stampeded up her throat. “Grosvenor Square is at the end of Brooke Street. That’s on Aunt Beatrice’s doorstep.”
“Liam is there, keeping an eye on things,” Archibald informed her. “And ‘tis the other end of Brooke Street they’re at, Hanover Square.”
Lily jumped up from the sofa. Her hand went to her throat, her fingers closing over the silver locket with its hidden vial of blood. “I’m going to my aunt’s. I wont leave her there alone while demons are in the area.”
She couldn’t protect the whole of London, but protecting her household was within her power. Halver had already died once at a demon’s hand, and Greyston wasn’t around to save anyone’s neck tonight.
Kelan stood, his glass left untouched on the table. “We’ll drop you off on the way to Mayfair.”
Instantly torn, Lily narrowed her eyes on him. “You’re going after the demons.”
“Propping up a lamppost on a street corner is no occupation for a lady,” he said firmly. “Go to your aunt, Lily. If I think you could be of assistance, you’re only at the end of the road.”
SIXTEEN
White linen cloths, polished silver, china and crystal adorned the two tables brought down to the bottom of the castle’s rear gardens for al fresco dining. Liveried footmen served platters of welsh rabbit, roasted turkey and cold ham along with asparagus tipped in gooseberry cheese and stuffed artichokes.
Wine flowed freely while the sun bowed out gracefully behind the lofty firs and Greyston pricked the ego of an English duke. “Your castle has survived the ages magnificently,” he said, sweeping his gaze over the fortified pile. “Being so far south must have proved a blessing, sparing your seat the plunder of the Border Wars.”
Harchings’ cool gaze met his over the rim of crystal glass. “What are you insinuating?”
Fortuitous calculations made by self-serving minds. But Greyston wanted only to prick, not slaughter. “Fate favours those who look ahead.”
“Actually, our ancestral seat is just north of Carlisle. The second Duke of Harchings was awarded this castle after our Dunnenwalk strong holding had been razed to the ground for the last time. But not before we pushed you Scots into a hasty retreat.”
“Politics at the table inevitably leads to indigestion,” Evelyn declared, pushing to her feet. “We’ll leave you to your squabbling—eh, I mean…port.”
The men stood with the ladies, Harchings saying to his wife, “I’ll walk you up.”
“I have three footmen and Georgina to catch me if I fall,” Evelyn said firmly. “Which I most decidedly won’t,” she added quickly to his arrowed brow.
Georgina’s gaze came to Greyston, her lips curved into a smile that heated through his blood. I’ll see you later.
He grinned over a stab of regret.
Last night had been a journey of discovery for both of them. Georgina was no innocent, but she was a far cry from the experiences of his past. Each soft mew fluttered from her lips had stroked his desire higher; every cry of delight lit a fresh, unexpected flame.
This evening, she had an unwitting role to play. Unfortunately, it wasn’t in his bed.
“If you really want to protect me,” Evelyn was saying, speaking over her husband’s objections, “you can start with my peace of mind.” She beckoned Neco closer. “I’d like nothing better than for my two favourite men in the world to get along.”
The look she turned on Greyston hinged on ferocious: If you hurt him, I’ll hunt you down and castrate you.
The kitten had found her lost spirit and her claws. Greyston acknowledged—and approved—with a smile.
She took delivery of the offerings Neco had brought. Her head whipped up at her husband as she set the bottle of Pacific Rum and tin mugs on the table. “Perhaps the two of you will find common ground at the bottom of a bottle.”
With that, she took charge of a somewhat startled Georgina and led the way, waving a hovering footman along with them. “Neco will see to the gentlemen’s needs.”
Harchin
gs fell back in his chair with a scowl.
“Cheer up.” Greyston reached for the bottle as he took the chair opposite. “I’m sure you’re higher up her favourite list than me.”
The scowl focussed and blackened.
“We may not find common ground, but I’m up for finding the bottom of this bottle if you are.” Greyston held the bottle up to the fading light and whistled. “Pacific Rum. I haven’t touched this stuff since I was a green-horned cabin boy on board the Widowmaker.”
Harchings didn’t look any happier. “How the hell did my wife get her hands on sailor’s rum?”
“Not easily.” Greyston uncorked the bottle and poured two healthy measures. “She’s put more thought into this than either of us warrant.”
He slid one mug across the table and raised the other to his lips, his words rumbling over the potent whiff of spiced rum as he held Harchings’ gaze.
“May the best you’ve ever seen be the worst you’ll ever be.
But if not
Here’s to men of all classes
Who through lasses and glasses
Will make themselves asses.”
Harchings’ mouth kicked up at the corner. His hand closed around the mug, but he made no effort to lift it from the table. He observed Greyston with a sharpness that hadn’t been dulled one bit by a full stomach, wine or humour.
Greyston expected nothing less. The duke wasn’t a man to fall down on his own, or even first.
His eyes flashed to Neco, who’d retreated a circumspect distance to lean against a tree cast in shadow. Far enough to give the illusion of privacy, close enough for his amplified auditory receptors to record the evening down to the last slurred word. If everything went according to plan, Neco would be the only one who remembered in the morning.
Greyston tipped his head and knocked back the rum. Fire burned down his throat and lined his stomach with a satisfactory purr.
Not to be outdone where pleasing his wife was concerned, Harchings followed suit. He slammed the mug down and bared his teeth. “I thought Evelyn had forgiven me, but this tastes like a woman’s revenge.”
Greyston didn’t ask what needed forgiving. He’d already interfered more in this marriage than he was comfortable with. He refilled both mugs, then turned his chair out so he could settle in, squaring one leg over the other and resting an elbow on the table.
Between slow sips, he steered the conversation into deep, dark waters where secrets hid. “When I was fifteen, I killed a boy.” His gaze fixed on a lone iridescent star in the twilight sky. “That glassy stare, frozen on the apex of a nightmare he’d never awake from, still haunts me.”
His peripheral vision tracked the arc of movement as Harchings raised his mug to his lips.
“Self defence?” The rum warmed the duke’s tone without inflection to indicate he’d care either way.
“It doesn’t matter,” Greyston murmured. “Once I’d stopped panicking, once he was stone cold dead… When I saw how scrawny he was, years younger than me, bones picked by hunger and dockland decay, it didn’t matter.”
That was the pivotal, deciding moment of his life. Swallowing past the black rot creeping up his throat, he’d desperately clawed back the minutes to undo what he was, what he was capable of. He’d pushed against the torrent of rot, diving deep through masks woven by his protective brother until he reached truths laid by his father since the day he was born.
Vermin ta vermin and ye’ll take us all with ye.
There he’d found a key, buried into the blackened depths of his soul. He’d turned and time had stepped back, rewinding to the memory branded into his skull, the moment right before he kicked out at his attacker and lodged the boy’s own knife into his throat. The second time around, Greyston had scrambled free on hands and knees and shot off into the alley.
That the boy had lived detracted nothing from the fact and horror left behind in Greyston’s dual awareness of the parallel time dimensions. When I was fifteen, I killed a boy.
Greyston downed the contents of his tin mug to pay the cost of soul-baring and brought his gaze down from the stars. He held the bottle up between them and cocked an expectant brow.
Harchings curled his fingers around the back of his neck, eyes narrowed as he assimilated the game play and made his own decisions. Greyston could almost hear the duke’s mind at work. They’d never be friends, but even enemies could bond over shared secrets and for some ungodly reason, this was what his wife seemed to want.
“I’ll never forget the day I killed my first bird,” Harchings said. “Not at the hunt, but the cruel, mindless act of a stupid boy with a sling and a handful of stones. I cradled the fragile body in my palms as its heart raced through those final seconds, black eyes judging and condemning me for eternity.”
Christ, this bastard’s hard to crack. I give him a street urchin, and he gives me a damned bird.
Harchings emptied his mug and offered it for replenishment. “Even now, I have a rabid fear of birds, sparrows in particular.”
Greyston did the honours and sat back. “My mother died giving birth to me. For a long time, I believed my father hated me for that.”
“Did your relationship improve once you learned otherwise?” Harchings slid an inch in his chair, his head resting against the high back.
“He jumped to his death at the thought of me as his sole heir.”
“But that would hasten the onset of your inheritance.” His lids drooped as his alcohol-saturated blood caught up with nerve endings.
Greyston felt the mellowing in himself. With each sip, the rum coated his veins another layer, cushioning his wits on a quilt of duck feathers. “He sold anything not tethered by law first and gave away every dime.”
The mugs emptied and filled once more before Harchings closed his eyes and let out a heavy breath. “The younger brother I should have had was stillborn. My mother died a week later from complications.”
“How old were you?”
“Six… Well, almost six.” His wrist slackened, sloshing amber liquid over the white linen tablecloth. Uttering an unenergetic curse, he tilted the remainder into his mouth before he spilled another drop. “I tell myself I relented to Evelyn’s wishes to have a child, but that’s a lie. Arrogance and pride compels my hunger to root my seed to this world, a primal need to ensure the legacy of my name and power will flourish long after I’m gone.” He slumped another inch and his words slurred. “And now I fear each morning will start the day I may lose her.”
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” Greyston leant forward clumsily to top their mugs. “A man’s legacy is all he has. And you, my good man…” He raised his mug in genuine cheer as an image of the impressive airship swarmed the thickening haze in his head and warmed his blood. “Your dirigible warship will stamp your glory on this earth for centuries to come.”
Harchings’ head swayed from side to side. “The Gossamer will stamp England’s glory, if only our queen could see past her precious navy. The time approaches… mark my words, the time approaches…”
“The time approaches,” Greyston agreed, nodding sagely.
“And victories.” Harchings brought his mug up to clash against Greyston’s, and missed. “Victories will be claimed in the skies. The sea will be good for nothing more than claiming rusted skeletons.”
The mention of victories in the skies and rusted skeletons tugged at Greyston’s brain. He blinked twice, and a blurred Harchings sharpened into view along with a fleeting impression of something he should be doing.
He slurped from his mug, and it came to him.
“George Winterberry shared your vision,” he asserted quickly before the thought escaped his grasp.
“Winterberry?” The duke harrumphed. “He was brought in to consult on problems… Problems!” Another harrumph. Another deep sip. “Hindered more than he assisted, if you ask me. Not that he did. Stripped the hull to line the interior wood with carbonised aluminium. That set us back a month. The carbonised metal was supposed
to…” His voice panned out as his eyes rolled skyward.
Supposed to…? Greyston stared into the bottom of his empty mug. He should really ask what…what was supposed to what? He grabbed the bottle instead and put it to his lips.
Harchings lurched forward and his eyes snapped open. He went on, picking up a thread of the conversation that had continued inside his head, “…still required iron platforms for the cannon and then he insisted those must be removable.”
“I knew it.” Greyston pumped a lead-weighted fist into the air.
Harchings slumped forward, both arms stretched across the table. He tilted his head to look at Greyston. “Knew what?”
Greyston pushed the bottle into his hands. “Pacific Rum is the devil’s elixir. If any man had the wits to bottle this stuff, he’d make a fortune.”
“We should do it.” Dragging the bottle with him, Harchings sat upright. He pointed a finger back and forth between them. “You and me. We should bottle this. We could use the Gossamer to fly crates over the Pacific and sell it to the Rums.”
“The Gossamer has taken to the skies?”
“The old engine was useless.” Harchings shook his head with the sadness of one who’d lost a war. “Fired half a ton of wood in her boiler and that didn’t even lift her from the ground. I had the queen’s maritime engineers working on a solution, but McAllister shut that down.”
Greyston’s attention perked. “Kelan McAllister?” he grunted.
“I dug around and found the damned earl shoved up Queen Victoria’s rump. McAllister’s always had a grudge against new technology, sticking his nose into places it’s likely to get chopped off.”
“The McAllisters believe they’re the right hand of God,” Greyston spat out. “They push human lives like pawns across their demon board and—” He jolted as an iron hand landed heavy on his shoulder.
“Neco.” He squinted up at his man. “Sit... ” He patted the air beside them. “Have a drink with us.”
“It is time to retire for the night.” Neco said.
“No,” Greyston growled, feinting away as Neco leaned in. “No, it isn’t.”
The Dark Matters Quartet Page 60
