The Bride Wore Pearls (5 page)

“You have run out?” she said. “Higgenthorpe, you must speak up.”

“One hates to be a bother,” he said quietly.

Anisha shook her finger at him. “You are no bother,” she said. “Have Cook set out fresh gingerroot in the stillroom, then fetch some cardamom pods from that odd little fellow in Shepherd’s Market—and mind he doesn’t sell you the green, for it isn’t at all the same. I will make it tonight after dinner.”

Higgenthorpe looked relieved. “I would be most grateful, ma’am.”

“And you will remember to spend a few moments focusing on your breath?” she suggested. “Do you wish me to show you how again?”

“Oh, no, my lady,” he said. “I do it every night without fail.”

“Excellent,” said Anisha. “Oh, by the way—I mean to go down to the St. James Society at two o’clock. Will you please have the red-and-black phaeton brought round?”

“The phaeton?” Alarm sketched over the butler’s face but was quickly veiled. “Yes, my lady.”

Anisha moved to follow him out, but Lucan caught her arm as she passed. “A word of warning, Nish?”

Higgenthorpe forgotten, she stiffened. “Warning?” she said, turning to face him. “Of what sort?”

But for once, Lucan looked serious. “Do you think it entirely wise to go down to St. James again?” he murmured. “Bessett may be none too pleased to return from Belgium and find his chosen bride is haring about London with Lord Lazonby—not to mention the fact that the fellow still drops by at least once a week.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” she gritted. “Rance is like family, and you know it. Besides, I am not betrothed, and I am certainly not
haring
about
.” It was guilt, perhaps, which drove her to speak so sharply. “I took Lazonby to the theater at Bessett’s mother’s request—not that it’s any of your business. And I went to Whitehall with him to see Assistant Commissioner Napier at
his
request. Moreover, the man calls here because Raju told him to keep an eye on us whilst he was away. Now I am going to St. James to pay a call on Miss Belkadi. Have you a problem with that?”

Lucan flashed a skeptical smile, one corner of his mouth turning up. “Dear little Saffy, hmm?” he said. “I didn’t know she had a social life.”

“Have you a problem with that?” she repeated, more harshly.

But Lucan just gazed at her through his somnolent, knowing eyes.

Anisha stalked out, stewing in her own guilt.

S
amir Belkadi was a striking young man of little patience. Possessed of hard, dark eyes which had seen much and gave nothing back, Monsieur Belkadi was also blessed with innate good taste, courtesy of his French father. From his mother, however, he had inherited talents far more useful: the ability to adapt and to change and to overcome incalculable odds; in short, the ability to survive. He was also secretive, cynical, and, if circumstance required it, utterly without conscience.

Belkadi was employed, nominally speaking, as club manager of the St. James Society, a position for which these diverse talents made him uniquely suited. The society itself was an island of elegance in an ocean of sophistication—which was to say that, in its rarefied little corner of London, the house scarcely stood out.

This was precisely as its founders had intended, for the true purpose of the St. James Society was not one which wanted advertising. The purpose was, however, marked on its pediment if one knew what to look for: a Latin cross above a crossed quill and sword. To those who understood the significance of this symbol, the house provided safe harbor and solidarity to any member of the
Fraternitas
who might find himself traveling through—or fleeing to—Britain.

The house sat in a dead-end street near the Carlton Club, just a stone’s throw from those bastions of clubland, White’s and Brooks’s. Indeed, at first glance, there was no appreciable difference between any of them; all large buildings with impressive entrances manned by impeccably attired doormen who spent their days bowing before a constant stream of England’s most affluent and most noble.

But none was quite like the St. James Society. And none was managed by anyone half so Machiavellian as Belkadi. Moreover, in this particular establishment, everyone involved in its direction was also a member, which left Belkadi in the unenviable position of having no one to complain to when things went wrong.

Today, things were going wrong.

This was partly due to the fact that two of the house’s three founders, Lord Ruthveyn and Lord Bessett, had gone abroad; the former for love, the latter to defuse a dangerous situation in Brussels. This, alas, left only the offhanded Lord Lazonby in residence.

Quite literally
in
residence
.

And it would not do.

“Again, Lazonby, we’ve only the two suites,” Belkadi repeated, setting away his tea. “Herr Dr. Schwartz is a handsome enough fellow, but unless I misinterpret his inclinations, I doubt he will wish to
sleep
with Mr. Oakdale.”

At that, Lazonby tried to smile, but it came out as more of a wince, one hand going to shade his eyes. “Could you just draw the damned drapes?” he grumbled.

“Drink more coffee,” Belkadi suggested. “Or, better yet, stop drinking altogether, and we won’t have this nonsense to deal with.”

Lazonby eyed him a little nastily across the coffee room table. “Ever the upstart, aren’t you, Sam?”

Belkadi ignored the remark. “Do you want to know what I think about all this?” he continued, waving a languid hand to indicate the whole of the house.

“No, but you are bloody well going to tell me,” Lazonby grumbled.

“
Oui,
” said Belkadi, “for you are the man who had me hauled over here and given the management of it. And what I think is that
this
is not your home—nor was it ever intended to be.”

“I bought a house,” said the earl darkly. “Don’t start ragging on again.”

“You bought a house,” Belkadi agreed. “In Ebury Street. A fine new house with every modern convenience. You even hired a servant or two. Yet you never stay there. But from now on, you must. You will.”

“You sound very sure of yourself.”

“Very sure.” Belkadi flipped open the ledger he’d been carrying when he’d run Lazonby to ground. “Safiyah has the footmen upstairs packing you even as we speak.”

Lazonby looked wounded. “Really? After all I’ve done for you, Samir? This is like a knife to my heart, you know.”

“Save your breath to cool your porridge,” said Belkadi almost absently. “Isn’t that a Scottish expression?”

“For a chap who once spoke not a word of the King’s English, you’ve managed to get the sayings down in a hurry,” Lazonby said dryly. “The more mean-spirited ones, at any rate.”

“I find malice has its uses,
oui
.” But Belkadi was consulting his baize ledger with total equanimity, ticking off a row of numbers. “Now—do you wish me to resign my position here,
Sergent-Chef-Major
?”

The use of his former rank was done with a purpose, Lazonby knew. “Of course not,” he grumbled. “How can you even ask it?”

“Then pray let me do my job,” Belkadi returned. “I’ve got Ruthveyn out at last, and you need to follow his good example. Your things will be carted back to Belgravia by dinnertime. Now, I’m to update you on matters in Saxony.”

Lazonby yawned hugely.

Belkadi pinned him with his dark, cold eyes. “
Saxony,
” he said again. “It’s
serious
. The King has allowed Prussian troops into Dresden. There’s been a bloodbath, and the court has withdrawn to Königstein.”

At this, Lazonby bestirred himself, and sat more upright. “Damned quarrelsome Continentals,” he muttered. “Did Curran get out?”

“Three days ago,” said Belkadi. “He’s taking Frau Meyer and her children to van de Velde in Rotterdam. He means to leave her there for the time being.”

Lazonby relaxed. “Then in all
seriousness,
” he said pointedly, “there’s nothing for me to do about
Saxony,
is there?”

Belkadi shrugged. “With everyone else away, it falls to you to be aware of our goings-on in the greater world,” he said. “And to deal with the annoying day-to-day minutiae as well. So, back to the claret. The ’44 Quinsac can be had more cheaply than—”

“Ask Sir Greville,” Lazonby interjected.

Samir lifted his hard eyes from the ledger. “That’s your answer? Ask someone else?”

“No, ask
Sir Greville,
” Lazonby repeated. “If you wish to send me to Saxony to beat back the Prussians, I’ll give it a go and draw their blood doing it. But if you want to know about wine, ask a barrister. To chaps like me there’s just the red kind, the yellow kind, and that watery pinkish swill. Every good field officer must know, however, how to delegate. If I’ve taught you nothing else these many years, Samir, I hope I’ve taught you that.”

“It sounds like evasion to me.” Belkadi slapped the ledger shut. “
Très bien.
I’ll just get the ’42 and hang the money. Ruthveyn has the good taste to prefer it, and with any luck he’ll be back before it empties out again.”

At that, the clock struck half past two. Abruptly, Lazonby jerked from his chair. “Your pardon,” he said. “I just remembered I’m wanted across the street at Ned Quartermaine’s.”

He was out and down the elegant marble staircase before Belkadi could form a sufficiently scathing reply.

Lazonby was bloody tired of decisions. He knew how to
act,
damn it. Thinking had never been his strong suit—which was, admittedly, the source of much of his trouble in life. And just now, he needed air, he decided, his hand seizing the massive brass doorknob. He needed Westmorland. The damned North African desert. Anyplace with some bloody space. London was going to choke him. He wanted only one thing from this godforsaken place
.

He wanted his life—and his honor—back.

Yes, he believed in the
Fraternitas
—believed in everything they stood for, and had very nearly given his life for it on a couple of occasions. He understood, too, that the house—the St. James Society—was a critical front for the organization. He knew that some with the true Gift needed protection, especially the women and children, and particularly so when revolution was rife across Europe. But he hadn’t much use for ceremony or science. And he certainly didn’t give a damn about politics.

A man more at ease sleeping in a tent and living in a pair of filthy riding boots, he found the constraints of London trying, and the prying eyes of society an interminable pain in his arse. But on this particular afternoon the pain had relocated to his head after a night of drunken revelry in the card room. He’d not wanted for company, either—for while the
Fraternitas
might be sworn to God’s service, not a man amongst them was bound for sainthood.

Admittedly, however, Belkadi’s strong coffee had cleared the cobwebs. And now it was time to get back to the business of vengeance. It was time to call on Quartermaine. He wondered he’d never thought of doing so before now. The keeper of their local gaming establishment was a right royal sharper, but he was wise to the game—in every manner of speaking. A man like that, even young as he was, might well know where some of the old bodies were buried. Certainly he knew people who could uncover a few of them.  . . .

That thought served to cheer him considerably, and Lazonby was already whistling his way down the club’s front steps when a black phaeton with ruby red wheels came tooling briskly round the corner into St. James’s Place. It splashed through what was left of the morning’s puddles, then drew up on the cobbles but a few feet away.

The fine-boned, perfectly matched blacks stamped and shook their heads with impatience, but the driver held them easily. “Good afternoon, Rance,” Lady Anisha Stafford called down. “What a pleasant surprise.”

He watched in mild stupefaction as the lady descended, all compact grace and vibrant energy, to toss her reins to the club’s footman, who had come dashing down the stairs to bow and scrape before her.

Lazonby was taken aback to see her, though he shouldn’t have been. While it was true females were not permitted to join the
Fraternitas
—though an especially determined young lady had recently tried and been shipped off to Brussels with Bessett for her trouble—scientific-minded members of the public were often allowed to use the St. James Society’s reading rooms and libraries.

But more importantly, Lady Anisha’s brother was a founding member of the Society. So, yes, she had every right to be here—no matter how uncomfortable it might make him. No matter how his breath might catch when he looked at her. They were friends, and dear ones at that.

He forced his usual broad, good-humored smile. “Well, well, Nish!” he said, leaning on his brass-knobbed stick. “Fending for yourself now, eh?”

“It’s a hard life.” Lady Anisha smiled, stripping off her driving gloves as she came down the pavement. “Do you like it?”

She meant the carriage, of course. “It’s . . . dashing,” said Lazonby, struggling to keep his jaw from hanging. “I’m just not sure it’s you.”