Phoenix Rising (34 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
In Which Our Dashing Duo Do a Spot
of Hunting and Discover What the
Phoenix Society's Favourite Sport Truly Is

B
elow, in the marble floor atrium, the people from the night before were gathered once again. They were quite different from the last glimpses Eliza had of them. Naked and leering the Phoenix Society and their initiates indulged in behaviours baudier than most drinking songs, dirty limericks, and music hall revues she had known. Now in the light of a new day, they had reverted back to all their pompous nature, the previous evening a distant memory, best forgotten. That was another thing British aristocracy did well—and one thing Eliza's New Zealand sensibilities could not stand: arrogance.

She had seen the destruction it could wreak on “the little people” below them. The Ministry, despite its promises to Queen and Country, was the great leveler. Harry had believed that they were the advocate for the people without a voice. He had died for that belief. And if it came to it, so would she.

The servants were also dressed for hunting, and Eliza contemplated what secrets they might be privy to. They were standing stone-faced, lining the hallway like emotionless statues.

When Bartholomew Devane looked at her, lust written in every line of his face, she smiled sweetly. Even in the brilliance of a breathtaking day, the man sent an unsettling shiver underneath her skin. His poor wife also glanced up, but hers was the look akin to the house servants. Other ladies were twittering like a flock of disturbed birds, but Olivia Devane stood apart. Her hands held each other, as if they could give her comfort. Eliza recognised those gestures, those fruitless gestures.

“St. John,” Bartholomew bellowed, “Lord, why is your wife dressed for the hunt? Most of the ladies are spending the day at proper pursuits—embroidery and some such.”

Perhaps, it was a good thing Wellington had cast her in the role of mute because she had to bite the inside of her cheek from saying something very cutting at this point. Her “husband” waited until they were free of the mansion's entranceway and standing next to the great bombast before giving his reply in a far more civilised tone. “Mrs. St. John is also my valet. She enjoys taking care of my needs, and because of her affliction she is also more trustworthy than a mere servant.”

Eliza's jaw twitched, and she stomped against the floor once.

Bartholomew's eyes gleamed. “Oh I do like your style, old boy. You must be in my party today.”

He then turned to his wife as he took a drag off his cigarette, the disappointment on his face clear as the cerulean blue outside, and then puffed smoke into the poor woman's face. “See Olivia, you should learn from St. John's wife. Get yourself a skill—or perhaps just learn to shut up and stay as such.”

If there were any accusations to be leveled at Olivia it was not that she was a chatterbox. As the men drifted away, Eliza reached out and lightly touched the poor woman's shoulder. It was a show of solidarity that she shouldn't have really given, yet she felt the other flinch.

At least with her husband out on the hunt Olivia would have a moment's peace. Eliza knew that if she had been in her place, she would have cracked. The crack would have happened with Devane's neck, and it would have been a
clean
break.

The crowd, including a handful of women, moved outside with servant dutifully following in their wake.

“A lovely day,” came the voice behind everyone, “Just capital for sport, wouldn't you all agree, my Brethren?”

Everyone turned in unison to see Doctor Havelock standing on the steps of his manor. His smile reflected the warmth of the morning sun, while his eyes twinkled with a jovial benevolence. The Society members all called out felicitations as he continued down the steps of his home to where everyone was collected.

“And you, Initiates, I take it you all rested well?” Havelock asked, his eyes moving from gentleman to gentleman.

When Havelock saw Eliza alongside Wellington and Devane, his head cocked to one side. His feet crunched in the fine gravel, and he hooked his thumbs in his vest pockets as he walked over to their party.

“The church mouse,” Doctor Havelock began, his expression as cool as the southern ice cap while considering Eliza, “but not so quiet the previous evening. Quite the erotic songbird you are.” Havelock turned to the other ladies present. “Do take your cue from this one. Limit your fine conversation this morning, as this is a gentlemen's outing, yes?”

The men all laughed on cue while Eliza blushed and looked away. Havelock gave a soft chuckle to Wellington, and then drew them over to the other initiates.

“Stay close to me, St. John,” Bartholomew whispered, giving him a friendly wink.

The Pembrokes appeared refreshed and a picture of prime English upbringing, ready for a morning's hunt. The Collins, on the other hand, looked tired. Eliza recalled Angelique partaking in the night's revels with great zeal, her husband watching her with keen interest. Presently, they were summoning up fortitude and smiles.

It was like being in school again. They so wanted to fit in, to be selected as the teacher's favourite.

Her eyes casually passed over the party. The Fairbankses were nowhere to be seen. No one would have noticed, but Eliza let out a long, silent exhale. She felt herself pulling free of the previous night's downward spiral.

“We have a lovely morning ahead of us,” Havelock said to all of them, “and it promises to be a smashing afternoon. Enjoy the sport, everyone.”

They were quickly divided into groups an initiate paired up with one or two Brethren. It would have been preferable for her and Wellington to be in the party containing Havelock, had Havelock joined a party. Instead, he inexplicably returned to the manor, choosing not to sully his day shooting with jostling initiates.

However, as he had promised, Bartholomew arranged for them to head off with him.

In the distance, mist was just beginning to lift off the dark green hills. The air was sharp and clear, very unlike London. Truly, a beautiful day—and normally the prospect of hunting would have lifted her spirits. However, the present company sullied the occasion. The guests and their accompanying trail of servants spread out over the hills, while beaters, who had been out hours before, worked their way through the low brush to scare up pheasants.

While Wellington chatted with Bartholomew and took little sips from a fine silver hipflask, Eliza prepared his weapons. A grim-faced valet was doing the same for the vile aristocrat. The man revealed nothing in his expression or action, and did not spare a word to her. Very well trained, these servants of Havelock. The working class on this estate either lived in fear of their lives, or were just as committed to the goals of their master. Presently, she had no way of finding out.

Shots popped and cracked down the line as birds leapt from the brush and swept away in great arch in the bright blue sky above them. A glance told Eliza that Wellington was nervous as hell as shots worked their way towards them. She gave him a nudge and handed him a different weapon, one that was not loaded. The colour in his face started to recede, but a jerk of her head and his eyes lit up.

Another flock of pheasant sprung out in front of their little group, and Wellington stepped forward, raising his rifle. He looked as if he was about to draw a bead on the fowl, when he gasped and pointed to the right. “Doctor Havelock?” he called.

Devane was certainly of the nervous, stupid sort, because he spun around as if an assassin was leaping at him. In that split second, Eliza cocked the rifle cradled in her arms, placed the primed rifle's barrel on Wellington's shoulder, and fired twice, the hammers both striking close to Wellington's ear. As two birds tumbled and Wellington's once-confident stance wavered, Eliza handed him the smoking gun and snatched the empty one from his grasp.

“Bloody hell,” Devane turned back. His face was bright red. “What do you think you were doing, old boy?”

“I'M SORRY!” Wellington bellowed.

“You called out to Doctor Havelock when he was nowhere in sight!”

“NO, I'VE NOT SEEN BANGKOK AT NIGHT! I HEAR IT'S LOVELY!”

His brow furrowed, and Eliza saw the man's grip tighten across the butt of his own rifle. “I can respect an opportunist, to be certain. But a cad?”

Eliza felt a stinging sensation in her neck. She hoped he didn't notice her flinch.
He
was calling her partner a cad?

Wellington massaged his ear canal for a moment and then mimicked yawning, shaking his head with a quick exhale that caused his lips to flutter audibly. “Sorry about that, Lord Devane, but I had forgotten that my hearing is quite sensitive to loud noises. I wear cotton wadding in the factories so that my hearing rema—”

“Stuff your hearing, St. John, and explain yourself!”

Straightening up to the challenge, Wellington once again displayed his disturbing ability to blend in with this vile crowd. He laughed up boorishly. “ Oh, I see, you are at odds with me for the distraction? Well now, Lord Devane, I ask you where has there been true honour on the field of battle? This is an initiation, after all. Everything we do is a test, isn't it?”

“That's as may be, St. John, but—”

“And you have a Major as one of the candidates? I'm certain he will bag two quail with little to no effort. How do I compete against that sort of skill? Ingenuity.”

Devane glared at him, but there was a grudging tone of admiration in his voice. “Clever solution, old boy.”

Wellington shot back a wink. “I have my moments.”

For the remainder of the afternoon, Lord Devane took measure (and from what Eliza saw, pride) in shouldering Wellington out of the way every time a brace of pheasant rose from the undergrowth. Yes, it was—after all—an initiation for Wellington, and assuredly everything was a test. Her bagging had shown Wellington's “skill” enough for him to irritate Devane. This may not have been the most ideal situation Eliza would have wished for, seeing as she wanted Wellington to shine. However, the spiteful part of her was thrilled. She liked annoying Bartholomew Devane.

The tall, imposing butler who had been tending to Doctor Havelock the previous night slowly traversed over the rolling hills of the estate, tapping a small, handheld gong. The parties followed the servant to a flat clearing where the help had laid out a very fine feast on a series of tables. Eliza's status as valet to her “husband” had neatly relegated her to servant status, an unexpected advantage in intelligence gathering that she would begrudgingly need to thank Wellington for. She was able to circulate through the crowd of men dining on sandwiches and scotch without notice.

Unfortunately none of the conversations were particularly worthy of note, mostly about the current sport, the delectable entertainment of First Night, or the appalling state of the Empire, usual topics for a gathering of men.

The gong that had called them all together rang softly once more. Eliza finished off her flute of champagne and callously set it aside for the servants to tend to
. All part of the façade
, she tried to assure herself, though it gave her little comfort. The company was now adjourning for the afternoon's entertainment; but as Eliza returned to where the Devane party waited, their collected numbers seemed smaller. She paused, looking at the parties spreading out.

“Hyacinth,” Wellington barked, “unless what you have forgotten is tantamount to the Holy Grail, do get a move on!”

All part of the façade
, she seethed, and this time the mantra gave her less comfort.

After an hour, the beaters had not lifted any more birds from the underbrush and even Lord Devane lowered his gun. He lit a freshly rolled cigarette and scanned the scene. It seemed that every party was enduring the same luck, and small hipflasks were in evidence as the hunters waited for more game to be driven towards them.

“Damned fine woman, your wife, St. John.” His look raked up Eliza, as if she were a display at a museum. “I can understand you not wanting her available for everyone at last night's entertainment. Once you're a member though, she will be considered part of the Society, to be shared accordingly.”

Wellington touched her face, running down Eliza's cheek in the kind of proprietary fashion she would have barely allowed in her lovers. “We are still just getting to know each other, you see, so I wholeheartedly admit my selfishness. Once we are all joined up though, I suppose I will have to learn to share.”

Their companion took another long puff. “Now just a moment, old boy. You're not part of the Society. Yet. But if you would care to have a champion within the ranks, I would be more than happy to speak on your behalf, in exchange for a sampling of this fine dish.” His head jerked towards the wood at their backs. “If I weren't such a gentleman perhaps I would suggest”—his grin widened—“a little outdoor adventure—but as per the previous evening, I would prefer to have her wholly naked.” Devane's eyes jumped back to Wellington. “I say this completely with respect, old boy. She's a fine creature.”

Eliza imagined smashing the butt of the rifle into that leering face—thinking about it hard helped her stop from actually doing it.