Phoenix Rising (31 page)

Wellington cast a sideways look to Eliza. She watched the man, her fingers absently tapping the handle of a steak knife as he approached the seat at the head of the table.

“So,” Wellington whispered, “that's him, is it? Doctor Deveraux Havelock?”

Bartholomew's anger seemed to abate for the time being. “You know his work?”

“Call me a great admirer,” Wellington replied, “particularly for his standards.”

One of the servants pulled back Havelock's chair, then a fresh plate was set before him, his glass filled, and they returned to their places facing the walls, their eyes watching the curved, polished butler's mirrors hanging in front of them.

Havelock cast a quick glance over his shoulder, seemingly unhappy with the impeccable service provided. He reached into his pocket, noted the time with his watch, and then proceeded to his dinner.

Wellington leaned forward to speak to the lord of the manor, but Bartholomew's hand gently pushed him back. “Easy, old boy. That's not how things work here.”

“What do you mean?”

“While the conversation at the dinner table is all well and good, you do not engage Doctor Havelock. He might engage you, and regardless if you have a slab of filet or a spoonful of mousse in your mouth, you would best respond. Until then, it is wise if you do not interrupt the man's dinner.”

He cast a glance to the head of the table. “Does the good doctor always linger a course behind the rest of the dinner party?”

Bartholomew gave a soft chuckle. “A sharp eye you have there, old boy.” He cleared his mouth with a quick sip of wine. “He prefers to observe the people around him on the first night. I would not be surprised if he has already eaten, and this is more for show.”

A soft chime sounded, and staff appeared with meticulous timing. They cleared away the plates and presented the main course in short order. The smell of the venison hit Wellington before he actually recognised it. Immediately he was awash in memory—the kind of childhood memories he would really rather not have.

So he sat as still as the rest of the guests, while the servants piled their plates with meat, root vegetables, and gravy.

Devane obviously knew his superior well, for indeed Doctor Havelock was nursing his glass of wine. His dinner remained untouched.

“I must admit, Richard,” Bartholomew chimed in suddenly, “you hardly seem the type for our club.”

Wellington paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. Carefully, he lowered it back to the plate. “I beg your pardon, Bartholomew?”

“A man of your backgrounds. Rather pedestrian. Not what I would necessarily consider prime candidate material for the Society.”

“Because I am in textiles?” Wellington muttered.

“It's not as if you are into ironworks, munitions, or something more . . .” Bartholomew's voice trailed off, something akin to a sneer forming on his face, “. . . aggressive.”

“I see.” Wellington nodded, his hand reaching for his wineglass. He did not remember when it was refilled. “And tell me, just how many soldiers charge on the battlefield stark naked?” The fork was now back in his hand and, once again, Wellington was enjoying a lovely dinner. After a few bites, he dabbed at his mouth and added, “In my line of industry, everyone needs clothing. Both sides, if you must know. To me, warfare is not a matter of politics or ideology, but colour, fashion, and fabrics.”
Now
, he thought,
time to place this cad in check.
“So long as the respective warring factions are doing their part to weed out the runts, thin the herd, whatever you wish to call it, I will make sure they are properly clothed.”

That caused both shadows to either side of him to stop.

“So you hold no loyalty to any one side in your business then, is that what you're saying, old boy?”

“What I'm saying is, let the so-called heirs to the government and the great unwashed masses tend to one another. If they want to whittle their own numbers down while making a tidy profit in the process, why would I care? My pursuits—including personal ones outside of my humble textile mills—will remain funded.” Wellington finished off a spear of asparagus, dabbed at his mouth and then took a sip of his wine. He found the silence around him assuring. “I do not believe in a government that fails us, only in the ideals of what our society was based upon.”

Wellington realised in the moments that seemed to slink past that he was truly beginning to appreciate this fine dinner.

“You, Richard, are a man full of surprises.”

He finally turned to Devane. If it were anywhere else, he would have insisted on meeting him in a boxing ring. Queensbury Rules, naturally.

“You have no idea, Lord Devane,” he replied quietly.

Plates were cleared and dessert—a delightful-looking Neapolitan Ice—was presented before everyone. Wellington enjoyed the tingle against his tongue, subduing it only a bit with a sip of water. He looked to Eliza who happened to be staring at Havelock at that moment. Wellington followed her gaze; and as he had been at the beginning of the dinner, Havelock was still drinking what appeared to be his first glass of wine for the evening. The Society's leader continued to watch silently from his grand throne at the head of the table.

When their eyes met, Wellington felt a sweat form on his back.
Now what do I do?

Havelock's eyebrow went up in a curious arch as did the curl of his lips. The salute with his glass was warm, charming, and sincere.

Wellington gave a slight nod, returning the smile, and then he turned his eyes back to the dessert. In his peripheral vision, he could see Eliza had already finished her own plate.

“He likes you,” Devane whispered. “And his approval did not go without notice.”

Wellington glanced up from his dessert and observed the other couples, those without the lapel pin of the Phoenix Society on their person, coldly staring at him.

“Well played, old boy,” Bartholomew whispered again.

I have no bloody idea what I did.

Wellington's growing panic slipped away at the sudden ringing of crystal. The conversation diminished, and all attention was now at the head of the table, on the Head Master of the Phoenix Society. Two butlers from the wall had turned and were moving his chair free of the table. Before Havelock stood, one servant cleared his place setting while the other stood by the chair, waiting. The doctor gave the second servant a dismissive wave as the first disappeared into the kitchens.

After a few minutes of silence, of taking all of them in, his voice filled the hall. He did not need to raise his voice. The acoustics of where he stood carried his commanding presence to them all. “My Brothers, welcome Initiates, and you that serve and tend to Us, welcome to First Night.”

From behind him, Wellington heard Eliza take a long, deep breath. “
You that serve and tend to Us.
” Miss Braun was more modern than even the most militant suffragist, so no doubt that phrasing crept under her craw.

“I am so looking forward to meeting you, those who wish to join our most hallowed ranks. While I am sure we will get to know one another better, I cannot impress upon you that this weekend is more than simply good company, fine sport, and refined diversions. This weekend, we will test the very reasons you are here, for the invitation to join us is not to be given—nor taken—lightly. We are not some common Gentlemen's Club where the order of business is merely sipping brandy, smoking cigars, and complaining about the state of the Empire. Ours is an elite brethren dedicated to fundamentals that have been, of late, falling by the wayside. Something we cannot—nor should not—tolerate.” He paused, looking at the initiates for a moment. His face, dark and hard, suddenly radiated with a pleasant warmth rivaling a hearth in the middle of a Downing Street pub. “This is not to say we do not enjoy our cigars, brandy, or other such pleasures.”

The Society's men chuckled while its women silently rose from the table and filed out of the room. The initiates looked to one another and then to Doctor Havelock who answered their unasked queries with a simple shake of his head.

“We will get to know one another. We will make our final choices. We will also enjoy ourselves and remember what makes us who we are here in the Phoenix Society. Have no doubt. Just as a reminder to you all, we have hunting on the morrow for the gentlemen. Ladies, if you care to accompany your menfolk, we are more than happy to oblige, provided you understand we are not ones who believe shooting is a proper sport for a lady. As far as the Society is concerned, those in the Suffrage Movement can continue to do just that—suffer.”

Another sharp breath to his left, and Wellington didn't have to look behind him to know Eliza was close to her cracking point.

“So,” Havelock said, his face brightening as he tapped his goblet with his spoon three times, “with the close of dinner, I would like to invite the ladies to join the Brethren's wives and companions for an after-dinner social. For your pleasure.”

As he spoke, the male servants moved to the wall behind Wellington, Eliza, and their side of the table. By the time Havelock had finished speaking, the servants were turning ornate wheels that were built into these walls. The vines and leaf patterns along them made these valves appear less as pressure releases and more as actual room décor. The subtle hiss was joined first by the soft rumbling of the wall's center partition of the wall moving upward like a massive plaster curtain. Both of these sounds were joined by a cacophony of moans, groans, and audible gasps until finally the hydraulics of the wall went silent.

The moans, groans and gasps, however, continued.

Many of the women were still in their corsets and bloomers but some were completely naked, their legs either open for an interested partner or embracing another woman as their mouths kissed and tasted each other. The erotic display was a continuously changing mass of flesh, of femininity intertwined and hungrily taking pleasure from whomever was willing to share with the group.

Wellington winced at how suddenly dry his throat was. He looked over to Eliza, and he swallowed again. Her eyebrow was crooked sharply, seeming to mimic the smirk on her face.

“Ladies, you may feel free to strip here and join the others. If you are more modest, feel free to change into a morning robe provided upstairs in your suites.” Havelock tipped his head back, his smile full of pride. “No need to rush. Our ladies possess amazing stamina.”

A pair of women, with a nod from their men, rose from the table and started unlacing their evening wear. They had not even crossed the threshold when two women, like silent naiads emerging from a thicket of wanton desire, greeted them with hungry kisses, their hands working at their complicated garments while pulling them closer to the pile.

Without looking, Wellington reached over to Eliza and slapped his hand across hers, stopping her from untying the top bow of her corset.

“Gentlemen,” Havelock said, his eyes back to the table, his demeanour nonchalant even with the music of laughter, gasps, and groans from the other room, “feel free to partake after port and cigars in the main study.”

The brethren and initiates all nodded in agreement and, one by one, rose to enjoy a nightcap. Wellington noted on a few of the “gentlemen's” faces that it would be the most
brief
of nightcaps.

Particularly for the man talking to him. “So, old boy, how silent is your lovely lady here?”

“I said she is mute,” Wellington said, his voice practically dripping with pride and lechery, “not silent, and most assuredly not quiet.”

“Well, I do hope she will be joining us later.” He pointed to a striking young girl, her platinum-blonde hair spilling behind her as her back arched. Her eyes were screwed tight as she cried out, her tiny, firm breasts quivering ever so slightly as another woman's mouth drew a moan from her. “That is Constance. This is her first weekend at the Society, with Uncle Barty as her guardian. If she is up for it after I am through with her, I can make an introduction.”

He hoped his face was as calm and placid as his voice. “That would be very kind.” Wellington turned to Eliza. “Come along, Hyacinth. If you wish to partake, I think we should have you change into a morning robe. I do know how you enjoy yourself. Might as well make your changing quick and effortless.”

Keeping his eyes trained on the doorway, Wellington led Eliza back into the main foyer and upstairs to their suite.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
In Which Mr. and Mrs. St. John
Have Their First Argument

T
he click of the door closing was far louder than Wellington expected. This time he was ready for Eliza when she grabbed hold of him again.

“You that serve and tend to Us,” Eliza pressed her anger into his hair, mimicking Havelock's voice and cadence.

She pushed him away, gave him a lustful pant that did
not
reflect what she conveyed in her face, strode over to the gramophone, picked one of the musical cylinders without even regarding what it was, and shoved it into its cradle. Wellington winced slightly at the force Eliza exerted. The fact the gramophone was intact when she returned to him was a real credit to its craftsmanship.

Eliza's mouth opened, no doubt to loose a barrage of bottled-up insults, but she froze on hearing the dainty, cheerful notes erupting from the brass bells.

Never mind the why and wherefore,

Love can level ranks, and therefore,

Though his lordship's station's mighty,

Though stupendous be his brain,

Though her tastes are mean and flighty

And her fortune poor and plain . . .

“Well now, Eliza, you certainly know how to set a mood,” Wellington said, staring at the gramophone. “I cannot be held responsible for my actions when a lovely lady uses Gilbert and Sullivan as backdrop to her lovemaking.”

Eliza turned away from the music. After a deep breath, she found her voice. “As far as the Society is concerned, those in the Suffrage Movement can continue to do just that . . .” Wellington was actually surprised at how calm she was. “Pommy bastard! If only Kate Sheppard were here . . .”

“If she were,” Wellington retorted, grabbing her by the arms and throwing her to the wall. His fingers quickly loosened her dress. “I don't think she would be in such a hurry to join the festivities downstairs.”

Eliza, over one shoulder, smiled as sweetly as a milkmaid. “One thing you learn on assignment: When you're in the field, sometimes you have to surrender a scruple or two,” she said with a certain level of malice.

“From the looks of it I would have to surrender quite a few.” Wellington replied, feeling his own temperature rise.

“Oh, for the love of God, Queen, and Empire, don't be such a prude. When in Rome, love as the Romans do. Just su—”

“Please do
not
finish that very common statement,” he growled. “Might I remind you that we are not on assignment, but working a clandestine operation far from the parameters, or dare I say the protection, of the Ministry?”

“Dare?” Eliza turned to face him, her eyes unreadable in the near dark, but he could hear clearly her undertone. He was suddenly very glad she was unarmed. “You have been more daring than I, Welly. First, there was the ‘mute' attribute, completely tying my hands so I have the devil's own time trying to communicate with you. Then there is your immersion into the role of Richard St. John which has been terrifying to watch.
No one
is that good of an actor.”

“I'm not acting.” Wellington shifted uncomfortably.

Eliza tipped her head to one side, her brow furrowing. “Beg your pardon?”

“Miss Braun, these are—” Wellington took a moment, winced at a memory that flashed before him, and then continued. “These wretches are the reason I joined the Ministry. My family is quite well off and my father was all about bringing up his family within proper society . . .

“I'm not saying he would approve of this sort of hedonistic behaviour. What I am saying however is that the fundamentals of the Phoenix Society—what we heard at the Opera House and what we heard tonight—are all that I was brought up on. I had to make you subservient, and that appeared to me as the best option at hand. And had you been allowed to speak, your rather independent approach to things would have jeopardized any chance of getting close to Doctor Havelock, something that—at least according to Devane—I may have taken a step towards. As I said before making you mute was a snap decision and one I should have talked with you about. As far as my transformation into this role . . .”

Eliza held up one hand. “I can see you have issues with these sorts of people, Wellington, but now is not the time to open up that particular wound and examine it. I know neither of us thought I would to end up in the Archives, and neither of us imagined ending up here. But we are here now, so very close to the answers Harry lost his life to discover. We can't afford to falter.”

“I am
not
faltering,” Wellington hissed through clenched teeth. He cast a nervous glance to the gramophone before continuing. “I am merely making you aware of my particular point of view before we go any further.”

His colleague's mouth opened a couple of times, and then she took a seat to sit on the bed. She smiled in earnest, “Why goodness me, Wellington, are you starting to act like my partner, and not someone I dragged along on this adventure?”

He tugged on the edges of his jacket, considering his next words very carefully. “Miss Braun, may I point out that at any particular moment in this whole mad mess, I could have stopped you. I could have walked away. I could have informed Doctor Sound about what you were doing. I think the fact that I am here right now, and took none of those options, should count for something.”

She folded her hands in her lap, and nodded seriously. For once there was no sign of her rather cutting wit. “That's a fine point, Wellington, and one I should have appreciated earlier. I'm sorry.”

Such sincerity was deeply confusing, but then she went and righted the matter by chuckling. “Besides the fact that you've been doing all the talking, and we have yet to be rumbled, is practically a mandate from heaven. So I say we have to trust each other, rely on each other, work together, or . . .”

“We die,” he finished. Both of them paused, sizing up the space between them like two combative cats.

Then, after a moment a slow smile spread on Eliza's lips.

“Then I best get dressed,” she murmured. “They will miss me.” She slipped behind the screen with something that almost might have been called meekness.

There was a moment where Gilbert and Sullivan seemed deafening, and Wellington found his skin tingling with dread and anticipation. He could not—nor should not—allow this. When she appeared again he was struck by how magnificent she looked. Even with just a plain red robe of fine satin, Eliza made it her own. Every instinct in Wellington told him to stop her, but one look at her determined face as she strode to the door convinced him he should keep his peace.

“I trust you.” Wellington sat on the corner of the bed where she had so recently been, however when her hand touched the handle he found himself leaping to his feet. He went over to the gramophone and silenced the cheerful musical. “Do enjoy yourself, Hyacinth. Remember you carry my family name.”

Just be careful
, Wellington mouthed.
Please
.

Eliza placed a finger up to her lips and winked. She mouthed in silent reply,
Don't wait up
, and then was gone.

Wellington, now feeling the oppressive silence of the room, removed his shoes and climbed into bed. As he leaned back he stared at the intricate patternwork of the ceiling, trying to lose himself in it. It was quite beautiful. Such detail, beauty, and love had been put into the manor. Perhaps as much love and care as had gone into his childhood home; the fine estate that his mother had created. For a moment, he could hear her playing Schubert downstairs, and smell the lavender of her perfume wrap around him. Strange how childhood memories haunted him in this moment where his partner was putting herself in so much physical and moral danger.

He knew why. His mother had been like Eliza—brave, beautiful, and rash. But for all of that it hadn't saved her. She'd been killed when her horse had thrown her at a hunt. She had refused to believe she couldn't jump that last impossible hedgerow—at least that was the story. Wellington had only been ten, and with her passing all joy went out of the house.

She would have undoubtedly liked Eliza. They would have got on. His father—that was another story. He probably would have set the dogs on the unrepentant colonial.

Wellington sighed, rolled over, and punched the pillow a few times. It was indeed easy to channel his father here. This was his natural environment. In fact, the Archivist would have not been surprised to see his grizzled, bitter face appear round a corner—but Howard Books never left the manor now. It was one small mercy for which his son was always grateful.

Wellington really wanted to remain awake for his partner's sake, but already he felt consciousness slip away from him, and it was a relief not to think about his father—it was bad enough to draw on his teachings. He didn't need his voice in his head any more than was absolutely necessary. What he did need was sleep. Whether he wanted it or not in that moment, it found him.