The Curse of Christmas (24 page)

“By golly! You’re right, Freddy!
Let’s just hope there’s a war for you to go to once this terrible
business is over. The Boers were all over us during the last one
but it won’t be long before the tide turns and you’ll want to be
there when it does; nothing better than being in the thick of
battle, young man.” And so their host reminisced until his cigar
petered out. “Shall we join the women now?”

Miss Blague was entertaining
everyone with a virtuoso performance on the piano. Coffee was
served while one whimsical capriccio ran effortlessly into
another.

Eventually the carriages were
called for. Miss Blague was going with the Vanderlindens. Freddy
offered to give his friend a lift but the Colonel declined.

“I don’t want to take you out of
your way, Freddy. I will go with the Countess.”

“But aren’t you staying at that
grotty Irish club in Soho? It’s in the opposite direction to
Mayfair.” Suddenly Freddy stiffened, grabbed his friends arm and
shoved him roughly to one side, out of earshot, into a patch of
slanting shadows. “Now I get it!” he hissed angrily. “You wily
bastard! You were her rescuer! I wondered who you were dashing
toward at that rally! You’ve met before!” He paused a moment and
the penny dropped. “Of course! Biarritz! You met her there! Very
well! The foreign witch is yours! But don’t overreach yourself,
James,” he warned with menace. “Don’t think that because you saved
my life once I will stay grateful forever. And don’t ever threaten
me again.”

Moriarty waited until the
carriage cleared Berkeley Square and was heading down Curzon
Street. “That was quite a performance you gave during dinner. Miss
Blague’s belated piano recital paled in comparison.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it. Why
didn’t you want anyone to know we’d met?”

“I thought it might be
safer.”

“Did you think I might spoil
your chances with Miss Moneybags?”

“Yes,” he lied.

“Well, you missed an opportunity
to escort her to the theatre.”

“I don’t believe in magic.”

“I imagine it pales in
comparison to real life. How was Monte Carlo? And don’t you dare
say cold.”

“Lucrative.”

“Are you sure you didn’t see the
fire cracker man at the rally?”

“I saw him but I didn’t
see
him. There’s looking and there’s seeing. I think you can
appreciate the difference.”

“So there’s nothing you can add
to your earlier description?”

“Nothing.”

“By the way, you failed to give
my coachman your address so we’re going to Mayfair Mews.”

“I wanted to see where you
lived.”

“You could have asked Freddy
Cazenove for the address.”

“How long have you known
Freddy?”

“Less than a week. I met his
father, the Earl of Winchester, when he visited Australia. Jack and
I had the pleasure of hosting him at our summer residence in the
hills of Mount Macedon.”

“The Earl’s had a stroke – have
you heard?”

“Yes, I know. I’m tossing up
whether to visit him or not.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it. He
cannot communicate at all and is fairly unpleasant to look at.
Freddy says he’s not long for this world.”

“If this business with Miss
Quilligan wasn’t keeping me so busy, and if not for Christmas,” she
sighed heavily, “I would have more time on my hands.”

“Ah, the curse of Christmas!” he
quipped before turning serious. “You should drop the business
pertaining to Miss Quilligan. Let the Yard handle it.”

“I cannot drop it. Her death was
brutal. Where will you be spending Christmas?”

“Ballyfolly - I’ll be leaving
London shortly.”

“Will it be a big Irish
Christmas with lots of family gathered around a cheery fire singing
carols badly?”

“Christmas be damned. I never
celebrate Christmas. When my pa was alive it was the worst time of
year. Miserable. Bleak. Joyless. Loveless. Cold. Christmas is an
excuse for a drunkard to drink more than usual. Christmas is a time
for more beatings and more whippings. And I’m not referring to the
dogs and horses, though they copped their fair share. Christmas is
a time of bitter disappointment. A time when children never get the
gifts they truly wish for and adults realize they will never have
what they truly want. Where will you be spending Christmas?”

“If I can convince Dr Watson to
share a Christmas goose and some plum pudding with me, I will
remain in London.”

“Dr Watson is a very lucky
man.”

The carriage pulled into Mayfair
Mews and neither said anything for a moment.

Colonel Moriarty seemed to be
memorizing the grand terrace of lofty, identical, red brick
mansions with their projecting bay windows showing off sparkly
Christmas trees. “Which number is yours?”

“Number 6.”

“Are you going to invite me in
for a brandy?”

“Arrogance in a man can be very
off-putting.”

“Not when it is aligned to
desire.”

“What makes you think I desire
you?”

“I was speaking for myself.”

She blushed in the hooded
darkness of the carriage and looked down at the silk-gloved hands
clasped tightly in her lap to stop them shaking. Gently, he picked
up a hand and brought it to his lips. Despite the protective silk
skin of the glove she could feel the heat of his kiss. When he was
done he placed her hand on his thigh and kept it there. She could
feel the corded muscles, the pulsating strength; the thrill of the
nearness of this dangerous man.

“Are you going to let go my
hand?”

He ignored the question. “You
seemed to be paying a lot of attention to General de Merville
tonight?”

“I was being friendly.”

“That’s not how it looked from
where I was sitting.”

“Then you should have angled
your chair differently.”

“You were flirting.”

“Men expect widows to flirt;
female desperation flatters their egos.”

“Were you trying to make me
jealous?”

“What if I were?”

“You succeeded.”

Her heart beat a little faster.
“I was under the impression that men who had perfect self-control
had perfect control of their emotions.”

“A man who is in love is never
in control of his emotions.”

She laughed lightly to disguise
the lump in her throat. “Love! Really! I think we’ve had this
conversation before.”

“No, we talked of marriage,
never love.”

“You talked of marriage, not I,
but if it is love you are after I recommend you set your sights on
Miss Moneybags. She was starry-eyed from the moment you hove into
view.”

“And risk having stupid
children? No fear!”

“What a strange, contradictory,
unfathomable man you are. Your childhood was bleak and joyless and
yet you talk of having children.”

“I have to pass Ballyfolly on to
someone or it is all pointless. But should I become desperate for a
rich wife I could have Miss Mona Blague at the click of my
fingers.” He snapped his fingers to prove his point. “I could have
any heiress in London for that matter.” He clicked them twice more.
“But there needs to be a minimum of interest if not a spark.”

“I didn’t realize penniless
Irish colonels were in such high demand.”

“You forget I have an ancient
seat.”

“Daddy Moneybags could buy every
ancient seat in Ireland and still have change.”

“Some people can see beyond
spare change. I can provide something many rich husbands cannot –
strapping boys, healthy girls, and for the lucky bride,
satisfaction in bed.”

“You sound full of yourself,
Colonel.”

“It is born of Irish arrogance.
Let me confirm it - you don’t stand a chance with Freddy should he
express an interest in your direction. He will marry Violet. Plus I
let him know tonight if he made a move on you I would shoot
him.”

“Honour among fiends.”

“Don’t you mean friends?”

“I know what I mean.”

A husky laugh echoed in the
confines of the carriage wrapped in fog and moonlight.

“Now, General de Merville is
much more difficult. I bet he set his sights on you the moment you
hove into view but I cannot go about shooting distinguished war
heroes. People tend to notice and disapprove.”

“You seem to make a habit of
threatening to shoot people. How long have you known General de
Merville?”

“A couple of years,” he said
vaguely.

“And Freddy?”

“The same.”

“Where did you and Freddy
meet?”

He angled his head to look out
of the uncurtained carriage window into the old mews hemmed in with
new mansions. “I cannot recall. A stable or barracks
somewhere.”

“Liar.”

A crooked smile played at the
corner of his mouth. “It may have been at one of those debauched
Hellfire Clubs, the sort that rich, bored, dissipated men find
amusing.”

“You were not amused?”

“My grandfather died of the pox.
The syphilitic stench of human flesh as it is festering and the
ugly facial deformity has stayed with me. I tend to steer clear of
places where brandy, brothels and brawling are the only thing on
offer.”

“In that case, I will not invite
you in for a nightcap, Colonel, and as soon as you release my hand
I will bid you goodnight.”

Conceding defeat, he brought her
hand to his lips a second time, then inverted it and tenderly
kissed the vulnerable under-wrist. “Goodnight, Countess.”

Athletic, endowed with masculine
grace, he leapt from the carriage and dashed round in time to hand
her down then began striding into the ghostly gas-lit night which
bathed him in a golden halo of supernatural light like a dark angel
from some otherworldly dream.

“My coachman can see you home,”
she called, noting his silhouette with some unease – the top hat,
the swing of his black cape and way he wielded his cane like a
weapon.

Without altering his stride, he
glanced back all too briefly. “I prefer to walk. It will clear my
head. Merry Christmas, Countess Volodymyrovna.”

Dr Watson, feeling rested and
chipper, was on the doorstep of number 6 Mayfair Mews by
mid-morning. “How was the soiree?”

“Dinner party,” she corrected
without even lifting her gaze from the newspaper she was avidly
scanning – a mysterious shooting in Monte Carlo, the Duc de Vezere
had been fatally shot in a duel which had been fought by an unknown
second on behalf of Prince Maxim Morozoviky who had departed
suddenly for Stamboul on a sailing ship and could not be
contacted.

He picked up on the prickly tone
but that’s not the reason he hadn’t bothered to remove his coat or
hat. “What happened? You sound tense.”

“I’m tired, that’s all.”

“Who was there?”

She reeled off the names as if
reading them from the shipping news. “General de Merville, Violet
de Merville, Batty and Dolly Vanderlinden, Miss Mona Blague, Freddy
Cazenove and Colonel Moriarty.”

“Oh,” he said.

She finally acknowledged his
presence, though he wished now she hadn’t. “What does that mean?”
she challenged; blue-grey eyes as sharp as steel and just as
lethal.

“Don’t take a disappointing
night out on me,” he bit back. “And don’t shoot the messenger. I’ve
come with news. We’ve been summoned by Mycroft Holmes. He doesn’t
want us to be seen anywhere near the Diogenes Club. He suggested we
meet inside Temple Church. There’s a mezzanine. Secret Service men,
dressed as priests, will act as sentries. They have been told to
expect us.”

“When are we to meet?”

“As soon as you get your coat
on.”

Built by the Knights Templar in
the twelfth century, the church was known simply as Temple. It
served as the monastic-military headquarters of the crusading
knights in the days when they were the world’s bankers. The Master
of the Temple once sat in Parliament and was known as primus baro
or first baron.

Architecturally speaking, the
most interesting part of Temple was the round section which was
modelled on the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. Purbeck
marble columns with pointed arches created an inner circumference
that supported a mezzanine from which one could look down upon the
nine effigies of famous knights laid to rest in a circular
triforium.

A sign on the outer door of
Temple read: Closed due to falling masonry.

Mycroft was waiting for them on
the mezzanine; ever the chivalric diplomat.

“Thank you for coming at such
short notice. I wouldn’t have summoned you if the matter wasn’t one
of national importance. It involves the Prince Regent.”

Annoyed at having her morning
interrupted, amongst other things, the Countess crossed her arms
and began tapping her dainty foot in time to her tetchy voice.
“Moral consequences,” she said acerbically, “without them we never
learn to take responsibility for ourselves and expect others to
bail us out of trouble. I’ve had enough of baby-sitting. Bertie
needs to grow up.”

“I couldn’t agree more,”
appeased Mycroft. “But this business is bigger than Bertie. It is
about England, the Commonwealth, and the Empire.”

“Oh, spare me the patriotic
blather, Uncle Mycroft.”

Mycroft scowled at his own
stupidity. “You’re right. You’re damned right. My
cri de
coeur
was clumsy. I am asking you to do
me
a favour, not
Bertie, not Queen, and not Country.”

The Countess ceased tapping her
foot. “An appeal to family is worse than clumsy; it is sentimental
and cowardly and it smacks of desperation.”

“Yes, yes, indeed, I admit it,”
he said ruefully, clenching his fists and burying them in his
voluminous coat pockets out of shame. “I am resorting to cowardly
sentiment because I am desperate. I am asking you, nay, begging you
to solve a dilemma that I have no idea how to solve myself, a first
for me, and an uncomfortable experience. I slept badly last night.
I have not slept badly since the time Sherlock put stinging nettles
in my pillow case. I was twelve; he was five and already a complete
little shit.”