The Bride Wore Pearls (9 page)

Thank God,
he thought. Thank God she had sense enough to know it.

But the terror of the dream was fading now, and the memory of Anisha’s hot black gaze was stealing over him as the lethargy seeped back in.

He remembered no more until he woke to a shaft of morning sun edging through the draperies and the chatter of an annoyingly cheerful bird somewhere beyond his window. Lying flat on his belly, he dragged a hand down his face, only to realize it had been bandaged with muslin.

Horsham.

On a muffled curse, he rolled over, dragging his arm over his eyes to block the blade of light that threatened to slice into his absinthe-pickled brain.

Just then, someone in the depths of the room cleared his throat.

Lazonby rolled up on one elbow, his bandaged hand coming up to shield his eyes. A man sat in the shadows by the window, a saucer in one hand and a teacup pinched delicately between two fingers.

“Ah, good morning, Rance!” The teacup clicked softly onto the saucer and was set hastily aside. “Back amongst the living, I see.”

Forcing his eyes to focus, Lazonby dropped his hand. The contrast between the black wool and white cleric’s collar told him at once the identity of his uninvited caller.

“A dangerous lady, this.” The Reverend Mr. Sutherland pinched the empty bottle by its neck as if it were a snake that might strike—which perhaps it was. “The Green Fairy, they are calling her in Paris. ’Tis said she causes madness.”

“Balderdash,” Lazonby managed, dragging himself half upright, the sheets pooling round his waist. “Keeps the malaria away.”

“Hmm.” Sutherland set the bottle away with a hollow
clunk
. “But absinthe isn’t just spirits, my boy. Dr. von Althausen theorizes the wormwood makes it chemically similar to cannabis. It’s hallucinogenic.”

Lazonby scratched his chest absently and said nothing. But after last night’s dreams, he was beginning to wonder if perhaps he and
Madame
la Fée
weren’t done for.

“By the way, we missed you last night.” Sutherland had gone to the draperies and was throwing them back on rings that shrieked with appalling volume. “Von Althausen was demonstrating his latest experiment in galvanization and its effect on the senses.”

Lazonby grunted. “I have no appetite for watching Dieter and his twitching amphibians,” he said in a thick morning voice. “Who let you in, anyway?”

“The new chap. Horsham.” With that, Sutherland threw up one of the sashes and leaned out into the street, breathing deeply. “I believe he feared you dead—and who better to deal with that sort of unpleasantness than a clergyman? They’re forever sending us round, you know, after it’s far too late.”

Somehow, Lazonby sat fully upright and waited for the room to stop spinning. Cold spring air was flooding into the room now. He dragged both hands through his unruly hair, resisting the urge to toss his visitor out on his ear.

Sutherland was an old friend of his father’s and had long been an important Preost
—
a high priest—within the old
Fraternitas.
He had played an important role in resurrecting and reorganizing the brotherhood, and had taken on the duty of reconstructing the old genealogies so that they could ensure no one who might possess the Gift was lost or left unprotected.

Sutherland, perhaps better than any of them, understood the organization’s long and murky history. Moreover, Lazonby respected him. Loved him, actually.

“Have you another cup there, Padre?” he said more amiably. “If so, take pity and fetch it here.”

The Preost did one better and carried the entire tea tray to Lazonby’s night table. “I’ve had a letter from Ruthveyn,” he said, tipping the pot over the empty cup.

Lazonby blinked. “Aye? From whereabouts?”

“Majorca,” said Sutherland.

“Making slow progress, isn’t he?” Lazonby took the proffered tea, the cup chattering a little dangerously upon its saucer. “Should have thought he’d be halfway to Gibraltar by now.”

“I believe they were detained in Paris,” said Sutherland, pulling his chair nearer. “Lady Ruthveyn wished her new husband to meet her uncle, Commandant Gauthier’s brother.”

Henri Gauthier had been Lazonby’s superior officer in the Maghreb, and one of the finest men he’d ever known. Gauthier’s only child, Grace, was one of Lazonby’s few true friends outside the
Fraternitas
. But now, through a strange twist of fate, she had married Ruthveyn.

“So you’ve come to tell me what was in his letter,” Lazonby muttered.

Sutherland chuckled. “You’re very astute, Rance, even when scarcely sober.”

“It’s a simple enough deduction,” said Lazonby. “Ruthveyn isn’t one for writing. And you never turn up unless you wish to chide me or send me off on some mission. So what was in the letter?”

The Preost seemed to sag a little in his chair. “I fear Lord Ruthveyn has caught wind of Bessett’s adventures in Brussels.”

“But he sat at the table whilst we devised the entire thing,” Lazonby argued. “Half of it was his idea.”

The man lifted a weary gaze. “I meant the part about de Vendenheim’s daughter.”

“But he knew that, too. He agreed Miss de Rohan might go along.”

Sutherland merely stroked his graying beard with his thumb and forefinger. “But something happened between them in Brussels,” he said vaguely.

“Ah,
that
something.” Lazonby threw up both hands. “Yes, Bessett fancies himself in love with the girl. I’ve had the whole story already.”

“So have I.” Sutherland picked up his teacup almost absently. “I met them in Harwich, you know, as they returned. And to be honest, they are quite perfect for one another. But what of Lady Anisha? It troubles me, Rance.”

“Oh, she knows.” Lazonby snorted with disgust. “Ever the perfect gentleman, Bessett told her at once. And frankly, I think she was relieved.”

Sutherland lifted his gaze a little incredulously, then he, too, sighed. “Well, Lady Anisha may be relieved, but I rather doubt her brother will be. Already, he grows suspicious. He senses something, or has seen something—you know Ruthveyn; the Gift is strong in him—and he won’t be well pleased with this turn of events. Bessett pressed his luck by merely asking to court the lady. To now throw her off . . .”

“Aye, Ruthveyn might tap old Bessett’s claret when he gets back,” Lazonby admitted.

Sutherland seemed to consider it. “No, I think not. Ruthveyn is not as rash as you, my boy. He seeks to maintain this new façade—the St. James Society—at all cost.”

“At the cost of his sister’s happiness?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps the happiness of one person is trumped by the importance of the good we do. Indeed, have we not all of us made sacrifices?”

Lazonby gave a sharp bark of laughter. “I’ve made damned few,” he admitted. “This St. James business, the formal reorganization of the
Fraternitas
across Europe—all of it was Ruthveyn and Bessett’s idea, concocted whilst I was behind bars waiting for the rope.”

“Again,” said Sutherland dryly.

Lazonby’s smile was bitter. “Aye, and if they’d got me on the gallows a second time, no trickery on earth would have saved me,” he said. “From the moment those gendarmes seized me in Morocco, I fully expected to die.” He stopped and dragged a hand over his face. “I thank you, Sutherland—you and Father—for persuading Henry East to recant on his deathbed. For had you not . . .”

“The
Fraternitas
looks after its own, my boy,” the Preost advised. “Stop thinking of it. ’Tis over. And by the way, you do sacrifice—sometimes more than any of us. Do I not recall it was you who volunteered to lead Jack Coldwater off our trail the night we were planning that mission to Brussels? And led him a dangerous chase through the rookeries, I might add, merely to keep him from our business.”

“But I
am
Coldwater’s business,” Lazonby protested. “Though his reasons are beyond me. Still, there’s no denying that my story has brought the full light of the
Chronicle
’s lantern shining down upon the St. James Society. That’s my fault—so it falls to me to fix it. To lead him off our scent.”

At that, Sutherland reached out and laid his hand over Lazonby’s. “Oh, young Coldwater is nothing but a meddling young radical, I expect. Some of them hate the aristocracy. This has less to do with you, perhaps, than the
Chronicle
’s politics.”

Lazonby’s hand fisted. “A part of me thinks if I could just unmask Peveril’s killer—if I could clear my family’s name—all this would end,” he said. “Yet I’m thwarted at every turn. No one knows anything. Most won’t even receive me. Scotland Yard refuses to open their files. I’m free—and deeply grateful—and yet I’m still convicted.”

“As to that, my boy, I pray the truth will out. You’ll settle it in time.”

“I wish, honestly, I believed that,” Lazonby grumbled. “In any case, what are you going to tell Ruthveyn about this little romance?”

“Nothing, I think.” Sutherland relaxed into his chair again. “It’s not my place to do so, is it? It is Bessett’s. And he is, as you say, ever the gentleman. Most likely he has already penned the letter.”

Lazonby grunted, took a long sip of his tea, then set the cup away and turned to sit on the edge of the bed, drawing the sheet along for modesty. “In all the great hurrah yesterday,” he said, bracing his elbows on his knees, “I forgot to ask if Bessett and Miss de Rohan got the Gift safely out of Brussels.”

“Indeed, the child has gone to her grandfather near Colchester. I’ve appointed a new Guardian.”

“Aye? Who?”

“Mr. Henfield.”

“Ah.” Lazonby had met Henfield once, when he had come to London to be studied in Dr. von Althausen’s basement laboratory. Von Althausen had confirmed the man hadn’t a hint of the Gift himself, but he was from an old
Fraternitas
family, and a stalwart country squire of even temperament and common sense. Henfield would watch over the family and ensure that the child’s special gifts remained hidden—for her own safety.

Sutherland rose and drifted to the window by Lazonby’s wardrobe, where Horsham, ever the optimist, had laid out fresh clothes on a chair. “You have not been entirely given up on,” Sutherland said, glancing down at them, “unless this was what Horsham meant to bury you in.”

“And lo, here is the gentle lark, weary of rest!” Lazonby quoted, grinning. “Best roll out before he sends down to the Strand for the undertaker.” He stood, dragging the sheet about him as he went. “Yank the bell there, won’t you? I require a bath rather desperately.”

Sutherland did as he asked, then said, “I’m off to the Traveler’s Club for luncheon. I’ll wait if you care to join me?”

“Thank you, no,” Lazonby said. “I’ve plans for the afternoon.”

“Oh? Of what sort?”

“I’ve a call to pay in Upper Grosvenor Street.”

“Lady Anisha?”

“Aye, I’m in her black books again.”

Sutherland’s expression turned solemn. “There was a time, Rance, when I hoped you and she might make a match of it,” he said. “Are my hopes entirely dashed in that regard?”

Lazonby felt something inside him still. His heart, perhaps. “Entirely, sir,” he finally replied. “I’m sorry. I beg you won’t bring it up again.”

“But Lady Anisha is such a fine young woman,” said the Preost, pensively stroking his beard. “And I know you are deeply fond of her.”

“Deeply fond, yes,” said Lazonby tightly. “Too fond, sir, to burden her and her children with my reputation. You know that I am right in what I say.”

Sutherland looked sad. “Aye, Rance, but she’s fond of you, too. And you’ll settle this business. I have faith. Perhaps . . . perhaps the lady will wait?”

“I cannot ask it,” said Lazonby, heading for the bathroom. “I won’t. But I do find myself owing her yet another apology for being boorish. After that I’m down to the Quartermaine Club.”

“Rance, I do hope you know better than to gamble.” The Preost’s chiding voice echoed through the open door. “Quartermaine’s is hardly the sort of place for a man of your—well, let us call it ill fortune.”

Lazonby was already shaking out toothpowder. “Ah, you are a master of the understatement, Padre!”

As Sutherland launched into the inevitable lecture, Lazonby carried on, scrubbing up the powder and brushing his teeth, scarcely able to hear any of it. But he said nothing. Sutherland was entitled to his rant. The poor fellow had worried much on his account.

The scold was cut short, however, when Horsham entered with three footmen toting massive brass cans of hot water in either hand. The new valet seemed to have the gift of prescience himself—either that, or just bloody good timing.

Lazonby watched them pour it out, then dropped his sheet to the floor and climbed into the tub, savoring for a moment the warmth of the water as it surged round him.

But it could not last. Peace never did.

“You may as well come in,” he called to the Preost through the door. “I wouldn’t cheat you of the joy you take in thoroughly raking me.”