by Ginn Hale
“It’s a pleasure.” Archie knew better than to attempt to take Agatha Wedmoor’s hand. He bowed to her.
Agatha Wedmoor’s expression was more puzzled than pained. “I had not expected that such a society as ours would be of interest to you, Lord Granville.”
Something in her tone made Archie wonder if somehow she’d imagined him too decent of a man to frequent such an establishment. But that didn’t make sense. More likely she’d thought him opposed to rubbing shoulders with Prodigals in any capacity.
“How could I resist any society that could boast so radiant a member as yourself, Lady Umberry?” Archie offered her his most besotted smile. Holding his breath, he even managed to pull off the appearance of a hapless blush.
Agatha seemed to blanch in response, which wasn’t an ideal reaction and inspired Charles to call for a servant to fetch a lemonade for her. Then he dragged chairs up beside his sister’s. He plunked himself down in the nearer of them and indicated for Archie to take the other. Neet and Lupton sat as well, grinning like they thought they were the audience in a darkened theater—all but invisible to the players on the stage. Men at the nearest table studied Agatha, some more discreetly than others.
Despite himself Archie felt a pang of sympathy for her. Even with her brother and a fleet of maids surrounding her, the club didn’t seem an ideal place for a woman to be at ease. He tried to think of a subject dull enough to bore their audience, and then his gaze fell on the volume beneath Agatha’s hand.
“A History of Medicinal Herbs?” Archie asked. “Anything in there for arthritis?”
Happily, that seemed to bring Agatha back into her element.
“Of course there is,” she replied as if Archie should have known as much. “Though the actual efficacy of that remedy—as well as most others in the book—seems highly suspect. Reading the thing is a lesson in the kinds of beliefs that can thrive when those practicing medicine are never required to support their prescriptions with any evidence of their effectiveness. It’s beautifully illustrated, however. I suppose that alone speaks volumes about the human appetite for superstition in pretty packaging.”
Archie wasn’t sure of where to go with that. He really didn’t want to spend the afternoon being informed of his ignorance about every herbal remedy under the sun. Though perhaps there was something worth sounding out when it came to the subject of ancient superstitions. Thom had asserted that the members of the Dee Club were distilling magic potions from the flesh and blood of Prodigals. Such horrors had been known to happen. Only three months ago, a grave robber had been hanged for selling putrid concoctions made up from the interred bodies of Prodigals. Most of the potions had reduced the people who took them to jabbering idiots, but it was rumored that one had actually granted a natural man the power to fly for a few hours.
It was hard to imagine Agatha Wedmoor stooping to such an enterprise—even if the potions could grant powers of flight, conjuring, and prophecy, like so many penny novels claimed.
He looked up at the sky and watched a seagull swoop through the white clouds. Should he ask about the Sunday fights, or was it too soon still?
“So, the thing is”—Neet addressed Agatha, but offered Archie a wink as he did—“Archibald here hasn’t a clue about how he should go about acquiring his first Prodigal, and he’s hoping that you might point out a few locations—”
“I’m not certain that I could help a man so ignorant as not to know where to find a single Prodigal, when the whole of Hells Below lies under our city streets and the entire Prodigal population is confined by law to the city limits.” Agatha narrowed her gaze, and Archie recognized contempt in her face. “Why on earth do the Granvilles of this world join clubs like ours when they know nothing of Prodigals?”
Neet blanched, and Lupton sucked a breath in through his teeth as if Agatha’s words had stung him. Even Charles appeared alarmed at her angry tone.
Archie returned her direct stare and nearly offered her a scathing rejoinder—then her actual words sank in. Granvilles… they know nothing. Her ire wasn’t aimed at him, or at least not at him alone. Instead she lumped him in with his uncle as yet another Granville. The thought tempered Archie’s feeling of offense. After all, his own antipathy toward Agatha and her brother stemmed from their associations with his uncle. He wondered suddenly what Silas must have done to Agatha to inspire such a smoldering hatred.
“I mean no offense, Lady Umberry. And I pray that you will forgive my ignorance.” Archie offered her a smile despite her glower. “I was lucky enough to have served with Prodigal men and women during the war. I would not be alive today if it hadn’t been for them. I’ve joined your club because I’ve become aware of the inequity those soldiers and nurses returned to after serving with such courage and—”
“Oh, don’t let’s bring up the war again! We will never hear the end of it.”
The mocking call came from the doorway. Archie turned to see that angular, pale face and silver hair he hated. His uncle favored him with a playful smile, and his teeth flashed fantastically white. It seemed like a cosmic injustice that Silas remained so very handsome and healthy at fifty while Archibald’s bones had filled a grave before he’d turned eighteen. Archie looked away from him to briefly take in the ruddy faces of the twin varlets who trailed Silas everywhere like hungry guard dogs—Mike and Nate Smith.
Then a dark-haired Prodigal girl, perhaps seven or eight years old, peered around from behind the two brutes and skipped into the room. An abundance of freckles peppered her tanned face, and though her patched gray dress and dusty boots lent her the appearance of a matchstick girl, her gold medallion proclaimed her a sponsored member of the Dee Club. Oily repulsion slithered through Archie’s gut as he watched his uncle extend an elegant hand to rest his long, pale fingers on the child’s thin shoulder.
How many times had Silas loomed over him and Archibald in just that manner?
Opposite Archie, Agatha Wedmoor’s entire expression brightened to a radiance that made her almost attractive. She rose to her feet. “My dear, do come here. I’ve a gift for you,” she exclaimed.
For just an instant, Archie felt flummoxed by the idea of anyone addressing his sinister uncle in such a rapt tone, much less Agatha Wedmoor doing so. He’d nearly convinced himself that she despised the man. Then he realized it wasn’t his uncle whom she favored with that utterly doting gaze, but the Prodigal girl. And the girl appeared delighted by the sight of Agatha. She rushed to Agatha’s side, and they hugged.
A few men at the nearby table made disapproving noises, and Archie glowered at them. Then he realized Charles had actually stood as if to challenge any one of them who spoke a word against his sister. He might have a tasteless sense of humor, but Charles obviously possessed some gallantry.
Agatha stiffened but gave no other indication of paying the onlookers any mind at all. When she did release the spindly girl, it was only to remove her own brilliant turquoise brooch and placed it in the girl’s hands.
“A Hesperia lykofos just like the butterfly in your book,” Agatha told her.
“It’s so beautiful! Oh thank you, Aggie!” The girl spun around once in her delight. Then she pinned the brooch to her dress with a nearly reverent expression.
“It suits you perfectly,” Agatha said. “But now, Phebe, you must tell me what delayed you so very long. We had agreed to meet at seven, and I’ve been nearly frantic with worry for hours now, my dear.”
“I’m so sorry, Aggie! I wanted to send word, but I didn’t know how. Lord Granville decided to take me to the Royal Botanical Gardens himself—” The girl then launched into a childishly meandering description of the wonders of the displays of wildflowers, rose hedges, rhododendron mazes, lily ponds, and “—so, so many trees that I imagined I’d magically slipped past the city gates.”
The girl’s astonishment reminded Archie of the hushed wonder that Nimble had voiced when he described the first time he and his division had been allowed outside the city walls and actua
lly seen the woods and sky stretching out endlessly before them. Was it any wonder that he decorated his home and filled his bed with all the color and splendor of nature?
“That was very generous of his lordship. Though I would appreciate it if he would inform me in the future if he changes our plans.” Agatha lifted her head, briefly acknowledging Silas, but then immediately returned her attention to the child. “I don’t suppose you made drawings?”
“Oh yes! Nurse Fuggas and I drew the roses. She has the sketches, and she brought my watercolors as well.” The girl took Agatha’s hand in her own. “Do you think there’s still enough time for the three of us to paint together? We could make studies of the stained-glass windows.”
“Of course, my dear. I’d be delighted.” Agatha’s expression hardened slightly as she lifted her head to address Silas. “That is, if you wouldn’t mind me whisking Phebe away for a few hours, Lord Granville. I would be much obliged.”
“If you wish it, then it is my most ardent desire as well,” he replied, and to Archie’s eye, he appeared far too pleased. He looked to the table where Archie sat, but it was Charles whom he singled out with a nod. “I’ll be upstairs in the card room availing myself of your port, Charlie. Do come along and join me when you have the time.”
“Of course,” Charles replied.
Silas left Agatha and the prodigal girl—Phebe—without further ado. Mike and Nate tromped behind him, as always. Hardly a moment later, Agatha departed, still holding Phebe’s hand, though it didn’t elude Archie’s notice that Agatha cast a hard glance back in his direction before she went.
“Bad luck on the first go at her, Archibald. I fear I might have upset her myself….” Neet pulled a pained face. “But don’t lose heart yet. The game’s just begun. Isn’t that right?”
Neet’s glance to Lupton inspired an unconvincing “Oh yes. Still a long ways to go yet.”
Charles seemed hardly to have registered the exchange. He stared at the empty doorway. Belatedly he seemed to recall the rest of them in the room. “No. It’s certainly not over.” Charles sounded tired beyond reason.
A prim-looking Prodigal footman arrived with the lemonade meant for Agatha. Charles borrowed Lupton’s flask, dashed a sizable tot of liquor into the drink, then downed it all in three gulps. He pulled a grimace of a grin. “Still plenty more to show you, Archibald!”
***
Archie spent the rest of the week familiarizing himself with the Dee Club and its members. He saw a great deal of Agatha and Phebe, but only in passing. They were often accompanied by a Prodigal nurse who looked to be in her midthirties. Her neat white uniform boasted the three gold ribbons awarded for service throughout the duration of the war. She was the oft-mentioned Nurse Superior Fuggas, Archie soon learned—the same nurse whom Thom had described as doctoring Nancy Beelze the night she disappeared.
Seeing Phebe, Agatha, and Nurse Fuggas clustered together around their watercolor sets, painting one of the large stained-glass windows, Archie noticed how closely Phebe’s profile resembled Agatha’s. Having been born a bastard to a noblewoman himself, suspicion of their relatedness came easily to Archie, where it might be unthinkable for men like Lupton and Neet.
But an instant later, the light changed and what had seemed a striking similarity disappeared. In fact, the golden rays pouring over Phebe now lent her a far stronger resemblance to Nurse Fuggas, both in complexion and build. Another shift in the clouds outside and that too seemed to fade away.
Archie shook his head at his own readiness to assume the worst of everyone and everything in the club. There was no point in inventing plots and secrets when there was already a real mystery to set his mind to. Except that he could hardly go around asking questions about Nancy or inquiring if any of the club members were perhaps distilling potions from the bodies of the Prodigals they sponsored. Far more patience and tact was required of him if he was to be of any use in gaining Nimble entry into the club.
Charles came and went, often with Neet or Lupton. He obviously spent much more time gambling and boxing than at the club he’d founded. However, Archie noted that Charles always lunched there with his sister. Most days Nurse Fuggas and Phebe joined them. Charles fled nearly every evening after Silas arrived to court Agatha and drink and dine at Charles’s expense. Silas generally quit the club around ten, when an aged governess arrived to collect Phebe and escort her to the garret where Silas had installed her. Agatha and Nurse Fuggas always remained on hand to see the girl off. Afterward the two of them often withdrew to Agatha’s private salon on the third floor.
Archie attempted to lure Silas into a card game, but he declined the offer. When he trailed his uncle to one of his favorite gambling dens, he discovered Charles already there. Twice Charles covered Silas’s debts to other men before Archie could swoop in. And at a game of blind-man’s-hands, Charles appeared to purposely lose to Silas.
After that, Archie had no doubt that Silas was blackmailing the Wedmoors. He did wonder how Charles and Agatha Wedmoor had managed to placate his uncle with mere scraps of money in place of Agatha’s dowry. Considering how utterly ruined Agatha would be if it were discovered that she’d born a child—a Prodigal child—out of wedlock, it would seem that Silas had them completely in his power.
When Archie’s own mother, Minerva, had found herself with child, she’d used the excuse of a pilgrimage to hide away in a secluded cottage. She’d endured her labor alone, birthing him in secret. Then she’d trekked through five miles of wild forest to her family’s country estate. There, she’d left Archie in a mushroom basket, bundled in rabbit skins, for the cook to find.
But for all her secrecy, she’d not been able to save herself from disgrace. Ten years later a gentleman fitting Silas’s description had provided several newspapermen with evidence that she’d born the bastard son of her dashing cousin. The contents of the letter she’d penned to her married lover had been widely publicized, and it sealed her fate. She’d been cast out to the mercy of the streets. (For a short time, it had seemed that Algernon—heir to the Granville title—would be disinherited as well. But he had been a charming man and already married into the royal line, so he was soon forgiven; boys would have their youthful indiscretions, after all.)
Before then, Archie had cherished the sweets and small clockwork toys that Lady Minerva Granville had so often secreted to him. He’d adored her for her kindness to him, a foundling pageboy. He’d felt blessed to serve in the country house where she lived. Afterward, he’d been torn between missing her so badly that it made him weep, and feeling furious that she’d again abandoned him. Then his uncle Silas had charitably snatched him up to serve as a timid companion to his newly orphaned half brother, Archibald.
Remembering those years, Archie truly pitied Phebe for the deprivations and constant slights she no doubt endured daily. There was nothing Archie could do directly to better the girl’s existence other than continue to undermine Silas’s finances. Only two months remained before three huge mortgages defaulted; those would set off an avalanche of debts and carry Silas into debtors’ prison where he would find himself at Archie’s mercy.
But for now there was still the matter of Nancy’s disappearance to look into. And so Archie skipped his regular rounds of riding and card games, and dedicated his days to the Dee Club.
The poetry recitals held every Tuesday and Thursday were as uneven as Archie had anticipated. One plump old matron amazed him with her lyrical turns of phrase, while several of the younger Prodigal poets made him wonder if they weren’t having a joke while pocketing their sponsors’ coins. He truly hoped that they were, but feared at least one pallid youth was absolutely serious in his dedication to forcing painfully dignified rhymes upon the stage names of popular actresses. His paean to the beauty of Miss Sandy Butts had driven Archie to jam his kerchief into his mouth to keep from laughing aloud. Neet, on the other hand, applauded the man heartily and with a sentimental flush coloring his cheeks.
Archie found himself wonder
ing how Nimble would fare and what sort of recital he’d have to perform. He felt absurdly nervous for Nimble and then quietly laughed at the idea of Nimble giving a fart for the opinions of these pampered coves.
However, he felt certain Nimble would actually appreciate the talent and bawdy humor of the troupe of Prodigals who put on the Wednesday evening musicals and variety acts. In fact Archie found them so marvelous that he anonymously donated a large sum to supplement the allowances provided by their sponsors. In doing so, he discovered that Agatha and Lupton numbered among their supporters. According to several elderly club members, Agatha had been so moved by Mister Pugg’s devotion to his three deerhounds, who now performed as “Doctor Dogson,” “Professor Pooch,” and “Inspector Barker,” that she’d sponsored his at once.
“Very tenderhearted toward animals and needy creatures, she is,” one stocky baron assured Archie.
“Oh, yes. I’ve noticed.” In truth, Archie wondered if Mr. Pugg’s good looks had been a deciding factor. He possessed the right build and freckled complexion to be Phebe’s father.
Though, under the influence of Archie’s brandy, Lupton suggested that Mr. Pugg was “a jolly poof who probably provides a couple of the Barons with backstage entertainment.” Lupton’s own money went to support a pert and extraordinarily talented soprano, as well as her rawboned, tuba-playing father.
A week of observing art and being constantly entertained muted the sense of urgency he’d experienced when he’d first heard Thom’s accusations. Archie’s awareness of sinister motivations and undercurrents came and went but didn’t ever settle on any single point in the genteel surroundings. He never forgot his reason for joining the Dee Club, but chamber music, mathematical lectures, and operettas felt far removed from dogfights and murder.
Then came Sunday evening.
To his surprise neither Charles nor Neet stayed at the club after tea. In fact, the character of the members who arrived as the day went on altered considerably from what Archie had grown accustomed to. The number of soft-spoken poetry enthusiasts, frail old music lovers, and amateur naturalists diminished as a stream of loud, rowdy young men flooded through the doors. The few Prodigals they brought didn’t wear gold medallions, and they obviously made their money with their bare knuckles or on their backs. Most bore the sunken tracks of ophorium addicts.
