Phoenix Rising (30 page)

She gave a light giggle and then produced a cylinder from the gramophone's stand. When the strains of “Love's Old Sweet Song” began to fill the room, she crossed over to him and smiled brightly. “An ingenious place to hide a recording device, but naturally it has its problems,” she said. “While the music plays we can talk, as long as we keep our voices low.”

He gave a sigh of relief, and then took a step back. He adjusted his glasses and stood to his full height. “Will I do, Mrs. St. John? Am I a suitable escort for you this evening?”

Eliza circled him and took full advantage of his discomfort. It struck her as rather amusing that she, a daughter of the colonies, should be called on to judge such a paragon of British aristocracy. Though she did not say it, he looked rather fine—better than such craven company deserved.

She did however step up to him and adjust his cravat. Straightening out the lines in the jacket was next. A very wifely thing to do, but she didn't stop doing it.

“I believe you shall,” Eliza replied, glad of the opportunity to talk freely, “and now I can breathe a little easier.”

“I'm sor—”

“We will just have to make the best of it, Welly. We can ‘talk' later about this. Good then?”

Wellington held out his arm. “Well then, Mrs. St. John, shall we go down to dinner?”

She smiled brightly in return, feeling her pulse beginning to race with the thrill of the pursuit. “Indeed—let's!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
In Which a Remarkable Dinner Is Served

S
ucculent scents tickled both their noses. Even Eliza in her mute guise could still make an appreciative sound as the aroma of what was promising to be a lovely night of dining wafted up to them. From the second floor of the mansion, voices could be heard mingling, their laughter flitting through the hallways and foyers of the manor. It was all very proper, all very civilised.

Wellington glanced at his “perfect wife,” as Bartholomew referred to her, and he felt a tightness in his chest. Her performance in the bedroom had been undignified, but he was aware that his own foolishness had bought her to it. Pressed against him so intimately, she immediately had the advantage as every logical thought had flown out of his mind. Now, with his wits and faculties back under his control, he understood there would be more to come.

Tonight they must share a bed.

She was so many things. Passionate. Unapologetic. Something he wasn't. Was that why he was suddenly here, outside of the Archives, taking risks he would have never dreamt of doing? Wellington then heard his father's voice in his mind, and saw the image of him shaking his head ruefully.

“
I am disappointed in you, Wellington, to be engaging in such common behaviours.
”

That's it
, Wellington thought to himself.
Just keep talking. I'm going to need that.

Abruptly he felt a grasp on his forearm and the corridor around him disappeared suddenly. Once again she had yanked him around, but thankfully this time into a cupboard. He spun about to see Eliza close the door and then turn to face him.

“All right, Books, out with it,” she whispered harshly.

“What?” he snapped back.

“You have a look on your face that isn't exactly instilling me with confidence. We are supposed to be rich fools.”

“Yes, and you're supposed to be mute. Even with the whispering, you are taking a risk in completely blowing our cover.”

“That, while it should be my concern, is not what puts me ill at ease.” Her brilliant eyes bored through him. “It's you. Can you do this?”

“What makes you think I can't?”

“You may have the training, but you are not a field agent—and right now, my life rests in your hands.”

He could feel his blood surging as he bit back, “So you don't particularly care for the turning of tables?”

“Not when the agent in question is about to take the reins on a covert assignment with only basic field training under his belt.”

Wellington sneered as he leaned in close, the humiliation she had dished out to him in the bedroom now firing his anger. “Your confidence in me is overwhelming.” She opened her mouth to reply, but he continued. “Eliza, if you must know, I am terrified, but right now I am trying to assume a role and you are
not
helping. If we are to play this couple and if we are about to descend into the lion's den, I have to become this persona completely. This means you do not question me or my judgement—do you understand?”

Eliza's eyes narrowed, but slowly she nodded.

A firm hand, Wellington, is what the common folk need.

His father's voice. His focus. Wellington swallowed, the pain in his throat causing him to start. “Good. Now please be quiet until we are safe in our rooms, if you please.”

For a moment, they stood in the silence of the cupboard, and then Eliza, with a deep breath, cast her eyes down.

“Better,” he whispered.

Wellington cracked the door open and looked up and down the corridor. With a nod over his shoulder, the two continued their way down to the main dining hall.

A few heads turned to watch Wellington and Eliza enter the room; and while he was well aware of Eliza's fashion and its intent to display her “wares” as she put it, he didn't like how quite a few men were allowing their gaze to linger on her. Suddenly he was aware of his skin against the fabric of his shirt. He wasn't nervous. Anything but. Wellington was well into his part now. He focused on the quick exchange between him and Eliza in the drawing room . . .

Respectable society. These are your people, Wellington Books
, the familiar voice assured him.

“Richard!” the voice called out happily.

Wellington almost missed the greeting, but an unseen nudge from the woman at his side silenced the memory. He could feel the smile on his face. It seemed to shoot pain throughout his entire body.

“Ah, Lord Devane,” he accepted the gentleman's hand, regardless of the screaming urge to recoil.

“Bartholomew, please,” his eyes immediately jumped to Eliza, and the smile widened. “And here she is, the delicious Hyacinth St. John. You are looking very healthy tonight,” he said, motioning to her breasts as if they were fashion accessories.

“I am proud of my possessions,” Wellington replied as he gestured for a butler to approach. He took two champagne glasses from the tray and offered one to Eliza. Without raising her eyes up to join his own, she took the glass and waited. “This one, a diamond in the rough, but so worth the effort.”

Wellington snapped his fingers. Eliza took a sip of the champagne.

“Oh, well done,” Bartholomew said.

Wellington winked at him. “You should see some of the tricks I've taught her.” Hearing himself speak those words made him queasy, but he quickly took a mouthful of champagne. The bubbles calmed him a bit.

“Would you care to join us? We're sitting closer to the head of the table.”

“Well, I don't think that would be quite fair to the rest of the initiates,” Wellington said, looking around them. The room was filling up quickly now, and from the glimpse of staff moving silently from the back passages to the adjacent dining hall, it was nearly dinner. “Are you allowed—”

Bam-bam!

Her boot heel striking the floor was loud enough to halt the parlour's conversation, but seconds later the din had returned to its previous level. Bartholomew looked at Eliza for a moment, a moment far too long to be comfortable, and then back to Wellington.

“You must forgive Hyacinth.” Wellington sighed.

“Must I?”

“Yes, although she is mute, that does not mean she lacks a voice. Two raps usually means no, so now we play our little parlour game.” Wellington then motioned around them. “How apropos.” Finishing off the champagne, Wellington turned to Eliza. “Eyes up, Hyacinth.”

Her eyes rose to meet his own. They revealed nothing.

This was when Wellington went cold. He was expecting to find that fire normally seen in Eliza's gaze to be a raging inferno—instead, there was a vacant stare, as if she were simply a clockwork automaton.

That reminded him . . .

The intricate pattern of the flute in his hand seemed to call him back. He blinked. How long had he been standing there? Had the dinner bell rung?

Eliza, his obedient pet, was still standing before him, a vacant stare returning his own gaze.

“Hyacinth,” he began, his tone firm, “are you attempting to protest my declining Lord Devane's invitation to sit with him?”

Softer now, Eliza's heel struck the dark wood underfoot. Once.

“I see.” Wellington gave a nod and then spoke over his shoulder, his eyes never leaving Eliza's. “She knows how much this weekend means to me.”

Her heel struck the floor once.

“And I think,” Wellington began, his eyes narrowing on Eliza's. She blinked and then looked down, like a child caught stealing cookies from the tin just before dinner. “Bartholomew, if I do not accept your invitation, I think my Hyacinth here will be quite cross with me.”

Again, her heel rapped the wood.

“The invitation is open, Richard.” And as if on cue, a bell chimed lightly. “Please,” Bartholomew said, motioning to the dining room.

The din seemed only to rise in volume as they entered the long dining hall. It was easy to single out the initiates as they were gawking at the décor of the room. Down to the brilliant silverware and impressive ice sculpture that served as the table's centrepiece, this was promising to be an elegant evening, herald to a fantastic weekend in the country. While many of the initiates lingered on the Phoenix Society crest stretching across the opposite wall, Wellington found himself drawn to the many portraits. These, he deduced, must have been past members of the Phoenix Society. Some of the faces he recognised from British history, Guy Fawkes being one of the more prominent paintings in the collection. Captain James Cook. Sir Thomas More. King Richard III.

Interestingly, the wall was absent of Ferdinand Magellan. In fact, the entire wall was devoid of any foreigner.

“But I was so certain,” he muttered.

“Certain of what, old boy?”

Wellington blinked, casting a quick glance at Eliza who was still playing the part of the obedient pet. He was now regretting that bit of improvisation.

“Oh my apologies, I was just noticing the—”

“Rogues Gallery, yes,” Bartholomew said, his eyes seeming to sparkle with pride. “A fine history we have in the Society.” He continued as they took their seats, “I wouldn't worry, old boy. The history is not that important in gaining entrance here.”

“What is important here?” Wellington asked.

“The future.” He glanced at Eliza, and then he returned to Wellington. “What matters to the Society is the future and how were are to shape it.”

Lobster salad was placed before them as wine filled their glasses. Underneath the table, Wellington felt a light pat on his thigh.

Nicely done, Welly
, he caught in her covert grin.

Olivia Devane entered and walked the length of the table, smiling to everyone she passed. Her radiance diminished with each step. By the time she reached their chairs, all pleasantries had faded from her face.

“Husband,” she said, giving a light curtsey, as would a servant bestow to the manor lord.

“Olivia,” he replied, his eyes never leaving his salad. “How go arrangements?”

“Oh, it will be lovely as always,” she said pleasantly.

“And your niece?”

Lady Devane was already of a fair complexion, but she suddenly looked ashen, as if she were a ghost that now haunted the dining room. Still, even with her pallid looks, Wellington found her a truly striking woman. While the men ogled over Eliza and her bountiful chest, Olivia—perhaps not as endowed as his partner—could not be denied for her own slender figure or alluring qualities. Her skin was flawless. Her eyes, dark pools one could easily lose themselves in. Wellington blinked, catching himself staring. Maybe that was acceptable to these men, but not to him.

Then he looked around the table.
None
of the men regarded her. At all. Why?

“Constance is here, yes. I'm a little concerned as to how much I had—”

“Will she be joining us or no?”

Olivia cleared her throat. “She doesn't want to disappoint her Uncle Barty.”

The smile across Lord Devane's face chilled Wellington.

“How sweet.” Bartholomew took another bite of his salad, and then observed, “You're not eating, Richard.”

He was staring again. “Forgive me, Bartholomew. I suppose I was distracted by your wife.”

That was when Devane paused, set his fork down, and then reached for his wine. “Were you now?”

“Well, of course,” he replied with a whimsical lilt to his words. “I can appreciate beautiful things in this world, can't I?”

Wellington cast a glance to Lady Olivia who remained still in her chair, hands crossed over her lap. The woman's eyes were shut, their lids pressing against each other so tight they were causing her brow to furrow. He caught the slightest tremble from one of her loose curls. Her nostrils flared lightly at the precise, controlled breathing she was now practising.

That was when he noticed the silence from around the table.

“Richard, you are a potential, so I do not expect you to know any better,” Bartholomew said, the wineglass touching his lips for a moment before he continued, “and I must admit, I am flattered by your compliments to my wife. So I must like you a great deal.” With another sip of the brilliant gold drink, he set down his glass. “Just understand this about me: I cherish all my possessions.”

Wellington understood. In that moment, he understood all too well.

“A shame you got to her first,” he added, leaning forward and giving Olivia a wink.

He knew she wouldn't see it, but it wasn't for her benefit.

Bartholomew grew red, and Wellington readied himself for the challenge of pistols at dawn; but the challenge would not be issued—at least, not right now—as the double doors opened. The man was greeted with soft applause from the table. Wellington watched the stocky gentleman flash a smile that charmed everyone in the room, save for himself and the woman at his side. The man motioned for everyone to stop with the adulation, although it was obvious that the modesty was feigned. He absently stroked his thick handlebar moustache with the side of his index finger as he made his way opposite of where they sat.