The Hanged Man (33 page)

His spies would not be unprepared; Brook was both her escort and protector. Like the riders, he was now armored, outfitted by a flying squad fellow of similar size. The metal plates were bulky, but his heavy cloak concealed all. He now possessed two loaded firearms, one in his coat pocket and another strapped to his chest. A cleverly designed harness and holster held that revolver under his left arm, its grip within easy reach.

A captured air gun would have been handy, but such a distinctive weapon would only alert the enemy to the presence of cuckoos in the nest. Alex had her Webley and hoped it would not be required. Lord Richard thought they would be safe enough. Past gatherings of Ætherics were reportedly boisterous, but not violent. Attendees of their most private of private parties were well dressed and rendered incognito by means of masks and veils. Alex inquired how he came by his information and was told that “Blackmail can be a force for good, when properly applied.”

She reasoned that he'd gotten a recounting from a luckless acquaintance.

The Grosvenor Square address was a puzzle, owned as it was by that fearfully respectable patron of the arts and bastion of the highest of high society, the Duchess of Denver, making it the most unlikely place to host an event of wild debauchery. Lord Richard informed them that the duchess and her household were wintering in the South of France, so she might have innocently leased the house to some member of the Ætherics, unaware of the possibility that unsavory proceedings might occur.

Or might
she
be in the Order of the Black Sun?

Disturbing thought.

Colonel Mourne's succinct instructions were in line with Alex's own plans: get inside, learn all that could be learned, and then get clear to report.

Eyes open, ears sharp,
Inspector Lennon had told her. He'd likened her to being a tethered goat to lure out tigers for the Service. In this case, it was a Service tiger sending her forth. What would Lennon have to say about the colonel's strange talent? Being a sane and sensible man, the inspector could be expected to head for the nearest public house and remain there until he forgot the whole matter.

Brook peered around the leather flap covering one of the windows. “We're here.”

Their conveyance slowed and stopped, but the front riders continued past Pendlebury House, circling Wilton Crescent, looking for but finding no hidden threats. Alex was out, key in hand, with Brook at her heels. She didn't breathe again until they were inside the dim entry.

The gas was low in the front parlor, but she corrected that and gave the bell rope a sharp pull. One of the maids appeared and, despite training, yielded to a bout of shock.

Alex distracted her by ordering tea. Mabrey the butler appeared, hiding his surprise rather better, and inquiring whether he might be of assistance.

“In due time,” she assured him. “Where are the family?”

They were away at various celebratory functions. Mabrey gave a recitation of where each might be found.

Excellent
. Alex would not have to explain herself to any of them.

“This is Lieutenant Brook, who is assisting me on a Service investigation. As you see, he's suffered a misfortune and is in need of attention. Do whatever's possible to improve his appearance and send one of the senior maids up to my room. We're in a great hurry, and I apologize for the imposition, but I assure you it is extremely important.”

Mabrey, having developed a high degree of imperturbability from dealing with the demanding Lady Honoria, gave a dignified nod as though he understood all. Alex told Brook to ask for anything and to please excuse her for no more than twenty minutes.

She trotted upstairs, stopping at her old room to divest herself of the cloak and the worse-for-the-wear blue dress. Not bothering with a dressing gown, she crossed to the necessary, scrubbed the blood of combat from her hands and face, and then quickly tripped down the hall to Andrina's sanctum.

A candle served to light every gas sconce in the chamber. Little had changed since the day Alex sent her offensive and bossy cousin tumbling over the floor. Some surface trappings were different: favorite toys were gone, replaced by elaborately framed photographs of various royal personages, but the wardrobes remained. Four lined one wall and Alex invaded each.

Aunt Honoria's personal maid, who had seen to things that morning, appeared with a tea tray and biscuits.

“Bless you,” said Alex. “Just on the writing table, if you please.”

“This is Lady Andrina's room, Lady Alex,” she cautiously informed.

“I'm giving my cousin the chance to serve our queen in another fashion.”
Fashion indeed! Andrina will burst a blood vessel and serves her right, comparing me to a parlor maid.
“I need to borrow a frock. Something formal.”

“Those will be kept in her dressing room, Lady—”

“In there? Capital. And please, address me as ‘Miss Alex.' It's what I'm used to.”

“Yes, Miss Alex. But—”

Alex barged into the adjoining dressing room. It had once been a communal playroom for the house children, but Andrina had annexed it. Four more wardrobes, shelves for shoes, boots, and countless other items of adornment filled the place. Where to start? There was so much.

“Best dress?” she prompted.

“There are several, Miss Alex. What sort of occasion are you attending?”

“A dinner.” That would give her some flexibility. “Pearls, not diamonds. Modest neck. No train. Veiled hat.”

The maid went to the second wardrobe. “Any of these might serve.”

“Bring them out for a look.”

While the maid did that, Alex attacked the tea. She was dry as dust, and this time took milk to cool it quickly. Not as quenching as water, but it revived her.

An old treasure box on a writing table abruptly distracted her from the tea. Years ago she'd salvaged it from the attic. It had been
hers
when she lived here. As a secure place for trinkets it was a disappointment; the lock was broken.

How odd that Andrina had claimed it, considering her contempt for all things to do with Alex. Their shared full name was carved on the lid, the result of hours of work by Alex scratching away with a penknife on a rainy afternoon. The dull wood now shone from beeswax polish. She touched it, her guard down, and a maelstrom of emotions swarmed her. She jerked back, feeling ill.

“Something wrong, miss?”

Many things
. She forced order upon the turmoil, pinning each emotion in place like an etymologist mounting and labeling a specimen. Here was fear, there was loneliness, this one was vast frustration, and that one … a terrible internal pain like a bleeding physical wound: longing.

The box had layers of it, thick as mud built up over the years.

Alex's response was astonishment. She had no idea that Andrina kept all that in her heart. What an unhappy, empty woman; no wonder she obsessed over exterior show.

But this box also provided Andrina with a great and sly gloating pleasure. There was something unhealthy about it, repellent. What the devil was inside?

Internal armor back in place, Alex tried to raise the lid, but the broken lock had been repaired. Her picks or a hairpin would remedy that—

Don't be ridiculous
.

Andrina's privacy was sufficiently violated with this raid on her clothes. Alex wished she'd not touched the box; she didn't want to know such things about her cousin.

The diversion did raise a potential problem Alex had overlooked. “Is there a dress Andrina has not yet worn?”

The maid pointed out several. After cautious testing, Alex determined the garments were imprinted more strongly with the fading emotions of the dressmaker (a cheerful sort) rather than her cousin. “I'll need a cloak, too. Something dark, just over waist length.”

“Velvet, wool, silk, fur, or satin?” After tonight, the maid would certainly be looking for a new post, minus a character reference, but if the prospect crossed her mind, she did not seem concerned. Her internal calm was admirable. Well, if she was dismissed, there was a place in the Service for her; Alex would see to it.

Alex both marveled over and disdained the fine dresses; they were as far above her once-pretty blue ensemble as it was above a horse blanket. The effort and expense to make the exterior of such an unpleasant person attractive offended her.

But picking out the best of the lot imparted another great, warm wash of malefic pleasure. Andrina would be so offended that her things had been gone through like rags at a charity jumble she might throw away the whole lot. Alex enjoyed the thought for a brief, sweet moment, then got down to business.

The best was too ostentatious and would draw notice. She picked the next one, which was elegant without too many fussy trims.

Alex was soon buttoned into the heavy silk gown, which was the finest thing she'd ever worn in her life. The color was a faded mauve with a soft sheen to it, the lines simple, the trims abundant but not overwhelming. However wanting Andrina was in personal charm, she possessed excellent judgment in attire.

“It's as though it were made for you,” the maid remarked. “You're just a bit taller than Lady Andrina, but it otherwise fits.”

“The waist is tight.” They'd had to take in her corseting to a painful degree. Alex hoped she'd not be required to do anything more strenuous than a walk.

“Gentlemen like a trim waist.”

Alex had yet to hear a man, gentleman or not, express any such opinion. It had always come from females. One day she'd have to inquire into the why of it, and she was positive that her sisters in the greater world had got it wrong.

In less than the promised twenty minutes, which was a wonder since proper dressing for a lady could take hours, Alex descended the stairs, making adjustments to the matching kid gloves that reached to her elbows. She'd gulped more tea for her thirst, had two digestive biscuits to steady her stomach, and was ready for anything.

Under Mabrey's supervision, Uncle Leo's valet had worked some strange magic with a clothing brush and sponge. An almost new man again, Mr. Brook waited at the landing, face washed and hair combed. She was abruptly reminded of coming downstairs in her own home so early that morning, for he wore the same expression, mouth agape, eyes goggling, and this time he failed to collect himself.

“You—” He cleared his throat. “You look most dashing, Miss Pendlebury, if you don't mind my saying.”

Theirs must be a collegial association, but there was nothing wrong with a bit of harmless admiration for a successful disguise. “Thank you, Mr. Brook. Your appearance is much improved.”

“Wait a few days and I'll have a glorious blue-and-yellow bloom around this eye.”

“It
is
rather swollen. Is your vision impaired?”

“Not a bit. Mr. Mabrey recommended the application of raw beefsteak, but I requested and got a mask instead. It will not be out of place at such a secretive gathering.”

“Mabrey must have hidden depths.”

“He liberated it from one of the footmen, a ginger Irishman. Why would a footman possess a mask?”

“I remember him. Rather fun, surprised he's still here.”

“But a mask?”

“When the servants are off to one of their own fancy-dress balls he always goes as Dick Turpin. He claims it intrigues the young ladies. They don't mind so much when he steals a kiss since it is in keeping with the impersonation.”

“Intelligent fellow.”

“Or importune, depending on the lady's response to such a theft.”

“One should always be considerate of the lady's feelings.”

The intonation of that statement was such as to alert Alex to the existence of another level of meaning to the conversation. She became aware of Brook's amiable scrutiny and a hint of gentle hope in his eyes.

The hint vanished as he held the mask out. “May I impose on you for help tying it in place? The armor and small arms harness restrict movement.”

Her agility was likewise limited because of the tighter-than-usual corseting, but she managed. He sat on a hassock, and she completed the operation.

“Will it pass, Miss Pendlebury?” He stood and turned, cloak swinging.

She decided he looked quite dangerous and was glad he was with her and not against her. She had a stray thought about Dick Turpin stealing a kiss. The prospect was more pleasant in consideration than in execution, given her inconvenient talent. Such intimate contact never failed to reveal the man's true feelings, and she'd ever found those to be a disappointment.

But might this one be different?

Heather Fagan had approved of him, and being a Reader as well, her opinion counted for much.

I'm taking too long to reply. He might get more ideas
.

“It will do, Mr. Brook,” she said briskly. “Let us proceed.”

Mabrey materialized in the entry, his curiosity having overcome protocol. He let them out, not a footman, holding the door wide enough to obtain a look at the waiting coach. He might infer it to be Service, but would acquire no additional information. Lady Alex made a flying stop with a male companion, changed clothes, and departed without explanation.

Mr. Brook gallantly handed Alex into the coach; she required assistance with the full skirts. He took the opposite bench and tapped the roof with a walking stick he'd borrowed from a collection in the entry's umbrella stand. They lurched off.

“I won't be welcomed back after this,” she remarked. “My cousin Andrina is rather particular about her things and does not possess a forgiving nature.” Alex gestured at the gown.

“Remind her that her contribution is for queen and country.”

“If I'm allowed. The secrecy level of this is far above even my uncle's post in the Home Office.”

During the ride they checked their weapons. Alex's Webley was barely contained in a satin-lined reticule that came with the cloak. The outline of the gun was discernable if she held it wrong, and the weight of it, spare bullets, and her lock picks were obvious. She'd have to keep it at or below her waist.