The Bride Wore Scarlet (4 page)

Signora Vittorio climbed out on short, stout legs, Putnam supporting her at the elbow. As her carriage clattered away, the old woman stood to one side of the pavement, just a few yards from the King George, taking in all the bustle and shouting that spilled from the well-lit yard beyond.

As she set off past the pub's entrance, however, a small, wiry man in a tatty green coat burst from the door, almost bowling her over in the gloom. His gait hitching but an instant, he begged her pardon mockingly, his breath sour and reeking of gin.

Signora Vittorio lifted her nose a notch higher, one hand going instinctively to the pearls at her throat as she moved past. But she could still feel his gaze burning into her.

“Wot, yer fat, black-eyed bitch?” he shouted after her.

Signora Vittorio did not look back.

She made her way through the morass of humanity and horses into St. Katherine's proper to see that the
Sarah Jane
was indeed moored in the east basin. And she carried an urgent cargo. Despite the evening hour, crates, sacks, and barrels were being offloaded at a prodigious rate and stacked hither and yon upon the docks, much of it being seized up again by chains and hooks, and hoisted directly into the modern warehouses above.

Signora Vittorio turned up her nose even higher at the sight. She who had grown up in the lush beauty of Tuscany's vineyards could never grow accustomed to these grim, teeming docks, or the taverns and warehouses and stevedores that went with them. Indeed, even the smell of the Thames made her stomach turn.

Some days it seemed perverse to have married into a family destined to make its living by both land
and
water, for some of the crates—most of them, actually—were marked with the symbol of Castelli's; a large, elaborate C burnt deep into the wood, and above it a crown of grape leaves. But one glance at the crates told Signora Vittorio this cargo was special.

This was the latest shipment of
Vino Nobile di Montepulciano
, the wine on which the foundation of the Castelli empire had been built. And though the company had widely diversified these past forty years, this ancient vintage of which poets and gods had sung was still distributed to Castelli's international warehouses directly from the docks at Livorno, and transported in special crates, and only in Castelli's chartered vessels.

Just then, her young cousin shouted at her through the bustle. “Maria! Maria, up here!”

Anaïs was standing on the foredeck, waving madly.

Signora Vittorio lifted her skirts and picked her way through the tumult, swishing gingerly around the crates, cranes, and grubby urchins awaiting an errand to run or a pocket to pick, for the Docklands were not known for their salubrious atmosphere.

By the time she reached her young cousin, Anaïs was standing on the dock beside a growing pile of baggage, a leather folio tucked under one arm.

“Maria!” she cried, throwing an arm about her neck.

Signora Vittorio kissed both her cheeks. “Welcome home,
cara
!”

“Thank you for coming down,” said Anaïs. “I didn't want to hire a cab this time of night, and I have too much baggage to walk.”

“Out of the question!” said Signora Vittorio. “And the
Sarah Jane
? Surely,
cara
, you did not come all this way by ship? You are not nearly green enough to have done so.”

“No?” Anaïs laughed and kissed her again. “How green am I, then?”

The
signora
drew back and studied her. “Merely a sort of gray-green, like that mold one sees on trees.”

Anaïs laughed again. “It's
lichen
, Maria,” she said, settling a hand over her belly. “And actually, I came across France, the last bit by train. But I met Captain Clarke in Le Havre, for I swore to Trumbull I'd see this shipment offloaded. It is precious, you know—and already sold.”

“And your brother Armand's job to deal with,” added Signora Vittorio sourly. “Instead, he's chasing a new mistress at some country house party.”

Anaïs shrugged. “In any case, the river was not so bad, and one must cross the channel somehow,” she said, craning her head to look about. “Besides, I haven't heaved up my innards since Gravesend.”

“Don't speak so bluntly,
cara
,” the
signora
gently chided. “What would your mother say? Catherine is an elegant lady. And what have you there under your arm?”

Anaïs extracted the folio. “Paperwork for Trumbull from the Livorno office,” she said. “Letters, bills of lading, overdue accounts from some bankrupt vintner in Paris. Clarke just handed it to me.” She paused to look about. “Where is the carriage? Have you a key to the office? I want to leave this.”

“I have a key,
sì
,” said Signora Vittorio hesitantly. “But Burr Street was blocked. I sent the carriage round back to load your baggage.”

“Well, I'll just walk down.” Anaïs snatched up a small leather portmanteau from the top of the luggage heap, and stuffed the folio inside.

“Not alone,” said Signora Vittorio.

“Silly goose,” said Anaïs, smiling. “Very well, then. Bear me company. Clarke will send the trunks on to Wellclose Square tomorrow. If Putnam could just manage the three smaller bags?”

With a few swift orders, Signora Vittorio arranged to have them carried through the dockyards to their carriage beyond. Anaïs was still holding the portmanteau just as two large men pushed past them, conversing as they made their way toward the
Sarah Jane
.

Anaïs turned, her gaze following. “My God, that is the ugliest Frenchman I ever saw,” she whispered.

“
Sì
,” said the
signora
dryly, “but the other—the tall one—ah,
che bell'uomo
!”

“Really?” Anaïs turned, but she could see nothing save their backs now. “I didn't get a good look.”

“And a pity for you,” said the
signora
in a low, appreciative voice. “For
I
saw him. And I am old,
cara
, but not dead.”

Anaïs laughed. “Ah, but I have learnt my lesson, Maria, have I not? That lesson one so often learns about handsome, dashing men? I don't bother to look anymore.”

At that, Maria's face fell, all humor fleeing her eyes.

Anaïs laughed again. “Oh, Maria, don't,” she pleaded. “Giovanni would be ashamed to see these long faces were he still alive. Come on, let's hurry. I want to go
home
.”

Maria's smile returned. Arms linked, nattering like magpies, they set off together at a surprisingly brisk clip, weaving through the remaining crates and barrels, and going out the back of St. Katherine's quagmire and into the streets of East London.

This was familiar territory to them both, but rarely at night. Still, as the bustle of the docks fell away and darkness settled in, neither woman was especially concerned. The fog had not obscured all the moonlight, and Maria knew Anaïs never went into the East End unprepared—or the West End, come to that.

They soon turned into the high, narrow lane that led to Castelli's side entrance. But they had scarcely stepped off another dozen paces when running steps pounded after them from behind. In an instant, everything became a blur. On a loud
oof!
Maria went hurtling sideways, slammed against an adjacent doorway, hitting so hard the doorbell within jangled.

“Take that, yer haughty bitch!” In a flash, a hand lashed out at the old woman.

“Oh, no, you don't!” Anaïs threw back the portmanteau and sent it slamming against the side of his head.

Sent reeling, the assailant cursed, and set off running, turning down a pitch-dark passageway.

“My pearls!” Maria's hand clutched at her throat. “
Sofia's
pearls!”

But Anaïs was already off, hurtling the portmanteau aside as she went. “Stop, thief!” she shouted, moving so fast she was scarcely aware of the second set of footfalls in the distance behind.

She caught the man in a dozen long strides, seizing him by the collar and slamming him against the front of a sailmaker's shop. He fought hard, but she fought smart, putting her elbows and height to good use. In an instant, she had his face flat against the shop, one arm wrenched behind, a knee against his knackers, and a stiletto whipped from the sheath in her sleeve.

“Drop the pearls,” she said grimly.

“Bugger off, yer bleedin' Amazon!” said the man, thrashing.

Anaïs pressed the blade to his throat and felt him quiver. “Drop the pearls,” she said again. “Or I will cheerfully draw your blood.”

In the gloom, she felt rather than saw his fist open. The necklace fell, two or three beads skittering away as it struck the pavement.

“Your name, you cowardly dog,” she said, lips pressed to his ear.

“None o' yer bleedin' business, that's me name.”

He jerked again, and she lifted her knee, slamming it up hard where it counted.

The man cried out, and managed to twist slightly in her grip, turning his once-empty hand. She heard the soft
snick!
of a flick-knife, then caught the faint glint of moonlight as the blade thrust back.

In a split second, she tightened her grip and steeled herself to the strike. But the blade never found flesh. A long arm whipped out of the darkness, catching the man's wrist and wrenching it until he screamed.

Startled, Anaïs must have loosened her grip. The flick-knife clattered to the pavement. But the villain dropped, slipped from her grasp, and bolted into the gloom.

“
Maledizione!
” she uttered, watching him go.

“Are you unhurt, ma'am?” A deep, masculine voice came from her right.

Anaïs whirled about, still clutching the stiletto, blade up. A tall, lean figure leapt back in the dark, a mere shadow as he threw up both hands. “Just trying to help,” he said.

“Damn it!” she said, angry at herself and at him.

The man let his hands fall. The night fell utterly silent. Anaïs felt the rush subside and her senses return to something near normal. “Thank you,” she added, “but I had him.”

“What you had—almost—was a blade in your thigh,” he calmly corrected. She felt his gaze fall upon the glint of her knife. “On the other hand, you appear to have been well prepared for it.”

“A blade to the thigh, a blade to the throat,” she said coolly. “Which of us do you think would have lived to tell the tale?”

“
Hmm
,” he said. “Would you have cut him, then?”

Anaïs drew in a deep breath. Though she couldn't make out the man's face, she could sense his movements, his presence—and the warm, rich scent of tobacco smoke and expensive cologne told her just who he was. A wealthy man, the sort rarely seen traversing these mean, meandering streets. And he was tall, far taller than she—and that was no small feat.

“No, I wouldn't have cut him,” she finally answered. “Not unless I had to.”

“And now,” said the man quietly, “you don't have to.”

He was right, she realized. He had not saved her from danger. He had saved her from herself. She was running short of sleep, dead tired from days of travel, and still queasy from the crossing. Neither her judgment nor her intuition was at its best.

“Thank you,” she said, a little humbled.

In a flat high above, someone shoved a casement wide, and thrust out a lamp. Still, the feeble light scarcely reached them. But it was enough, apparently, to allow him to bend down, sweep up her great-grandmother's pearls, and press them into her hand.

“Thank you, sir,” she said again, the pearls warm and heavy in her palm. “You were very brave.”

But the tall man said no more. Instead, still deep in shadow, he swept off his top hat, made an elegant bow, then strode off into the darkness.

Chapter 2

In battle, there are not more than two methods of attack: the direct and the indirect; yet these two in combination give rise to an endless series of maneuvers.

Sun Tzu,
The Art of War

A
ttired in the austere vestments of the
Fraternitas Aureae Crucis
, the Earl of Bessett stood on the stone gallery that encircled the Society's vaulted temple. Below, the chamber thronged with brown-robed men, and looked much as any small, private chapel might, save for the absence of pews and the almost monastic lack of adornment. Indeed, viewed by flickering sconces, the stone walls and floors appeared as grim and gray as the balustrade, with each level broken by alternating stone arches that served to cast shifting shadows over the assemblage.

The austerity of the temple was heightened by the fact that it was built underground—far below the streets of London; lower, even, than the cellars of the elegant St. James Society, for the temple had been dug beneath them, and the rubble carried out under cover of darkness. Few men living knew of this subterranean chamber, or of the sect itself, for too often over the centuries, the
Fraternitas
had been all but destroyed by the vicissitudes of religion, power, and politics.

But time and again, the Brotherhood had hung on. And though they lived now in an age of enlightenment, enlightenment was only as good as the men who stepped forth to defend it, and the
Fraternitas
had become defensively—and deeply—secretive.

His hands braced wide on the balustrade, Lord Lazonby leaned over and looked down through his sardonic blue eyes at the milling crowd as Bessett watched him assessingly. “What did you do with that lad from the
Chronicle
the other night?” asked Bessett quietly.

“Lured him up Petticoat Lane and lost him in the rookeries.”

“Christ, that place may be the end of him,” said Bessett. “What can he be after anyway? The reading public cannot still be interested in you. You are out of prison, and exonerated of any crime.”

His gaze fixed in the distance, Lazonby rolled his shoulders restlessly. “I don't know,” he said. “It has begun to feel . . . personal.”

Bessett hesitated a heartbeat. “And I've begun to wonder if you aren't taunting him—and enjoying it.”

“Bloody nonsense!” Lazonby's eyes flashed. “What has Ruthveyn said to you?”

It was an odd question. But over the last several months, the
Chronicle
's reporter—and his apparent mission to dog the new Earl of Lazonby to his grave—had become an irritant to all of them. There was no denying, however, that Rance's checkered past left him vulnerable to gossip and suspicion.

“Now that you mention it, I have lately sensed a strain between you and Ruthveyn,” said Bessett.

Lazonby was quiet for a moment. “Sometime past, I inadvertently gave offense to his sister,” he acknowledged. “I should rather not say more.”

Bessett's gaze drifted over the swelling crowd. “So Lady Anisha's ardor for you has cooled, has it?” he finally said.

Lazonby cut an incredulous look at him. “Why am I the last to hear of the lady's so-called ardor?” he snapped. “As I told your brother when
he
warned me off, Nish is not my type. I adore her, yes. We flirt a little, yes. But she—why, she is almost like a sister to me.”

Bessett snorted. “By God, she's not like a sister to me.”

“Then you pay court to her,” snapped Lazonby.

“I bloody well might, then,” said Bessett.

And indeed, it was not a bad idea. He had been turning the notion over and over in his mind for some time now.

Lady Anisha Stafford was a breathtakingly beautiful widow whose unruly children were in dire need of a father. And if a man had to confine himself to bedding one woman for the rest of his days, then one could hardly do better than Nish.

But more important than the lady's beauty and character was the fact that he need never explain himself to her. Need never be judged. She understood the thin, carefully crafted façade he maintained, that tenuous wall he had built between his conscious mind and the darkness beyond.

Perhaps that was the key to his restlessness. The thing that seemed out of order in his life. Perhaps it was just the yearning for something . . .
more
.

“I will, then,” Bessett muttered. “If you indeed lay no claim to the lady?”

Without so much as looking at him, Lazonby waved his hand as if in invitation.

A little awkwardly, Bessett cleared his throat. “Are you at all anxious about the new acolyte?”

Lord Lazonby's head jerked around, an odd smile curling one corner of his mouth. “Why should I be?”

“You've seemed . . . different the last two days.” Bessett set his head slightly to one side, and studied his old friend. “Distracted.”

Lazonby threw back his head and laughed softly. “You cannot read me, Geoff,” he answered, “so stop trying. Besides, this is a solemn occasion—or so our Preost keeps telling me.”

“I find it odd that until now, you'd never agreed to sponsor an acolyte,” Bessett mused. “You seemed not to take this part of the
Fraternitas
with any seriousness. Are you afraid the new recruit might forget his vows? Or trip over his own two feet?”

Lazonby crooked one eyebrow. “If the fellow falls arse over teakettle at Sutherland's hems, it's nothing to me,” he said evenly. “After all, he was groomed by old Vittorio, and Sutherland's the one who made me do this.”

“It
was
your turn, Rance,” said Bessett.

“Aye, and now I've taken it.” Lazonby's hands slid from the stone balustrade as he straightened. “And what Vittorio and I hath wrought, old chap, let no man put asunder. Remember that, won't you?”

Just then, a gong sounded, the low reverberations echoing off the vaulted walls. With a roguish wink, Lazonby threw up his hood. “Ah, the witching hour is upon us,” he said. “Curtains up!”

Still, Bessett hesitated. “Damn it, Rance, what have you done?” he asked, seizing his old friend's arm. “Do you dislike the lad? Or distrust him?”

“There you go again, trying to read my mind.”

“Oh, for God's sake. I don't read minds.”

“No?” Lazonby turned and started down the stairs, the hem of his brown wool robe dragging over the steps as Bessett followed. “But to answer your question, Geoff, aye, I like the acolyte very well indeed,” he continued over his shoulder, “but I'm not at all sure the rest of you will.”

After descending to the main chamber, Bessett and Lazonby took their places in the rear with the remaining Guardians. The ceremony commenced at once, all of them responding a little mechanically to Sutherland's liturgy. The traditional prayers were said, then the chalice of wine was passed, but Geoff sipped from it with half a mind.

The truth was, though he might accuse Rance of not taking such ceremonial matters seriously, Geoff, too, often skimmed over the finer points of rite and ritual. They were both far more concerned with the practicalities of how to resurrect and restructure an organization that, just a few short years earlier, had lain scattered over war-torn Europe in tragic—and potentially dangerous—disarray.

The initiation ceremony was always performed in Latin, the language of the last formal
Fraternitas
manuscripts still in existence. Over the centuries, many of the Brotherhood's records had been destroyed—often out of self-preservation—particularly during the Middle Ages, when the Gift had nearly died out, and during the Inquisition, when many of the Vateis had been put to the rack.

Though the Vateis were neither, being burned as a heretic or drowned as a witch was not an uncommon fate for those whom history had so grievously misunderstood. And out of such cruelty and ignorance, the Guardians had sprung, in order to protect the weaker among them.

Now they were to welcome another into the fold. By tradition, the young man now hidden behind the Great Altar would be a blood relation to one of the Vateis, and born in the sign of fire and war. He might possess the Gift himself, to one degree or another. But he would have been indoctrinated from his youth by one of the
Fraternitas
—most likely one of the Advocati—or a trusted family member.

Geoff's grandmother was one such example. Although forbidden membership as a female, she had been a trusted agent of the
Fraternitas
in Scotland, where the sect had always held strong. She had also possessed a powerful Gift—one that Geoff dearly wished he could give back to her.

He was returned abruptly to the present when Mr. Sutherland ended his invocation and descended from the stone pulpit. A deep hush fell over the room, as it always did on those rare occasions when any new member was brought into the
Fraternitas
—and the induction of a Guardian was the rarest of the rare.

Going to the altar behind him, Sutherland lifted the brass key that dangled from a gold chain at his waist, and unlocked an ancient, iron-hinged box. Easing back the lid, he gingerly lifted out a tattered book, already laid open, and marked with a long, bloodred ribbon.

The
Liber Veritas—
the
Book of Truths
—was the
Fraternitas
's rarest volume. The ancient tome set forth all the rites still known to the Brotherhood, and had been in use in one form or another since the rise of Rome.

With his right hand raised in the eternal sign of blessing, and his left cradling the open book, the Preost read a few short words, calling upon the supplicant to offer up his life to the cause, and asking God to protect him in his work.

Then he dropped his hand, and gave the sign.

Inset between two thick columns, the Great Altar began to shudder and grind, the sound like that of a millstone at work. Slowly at first, and then with surprising rapidity, the altar spun halfway around.

The first thing Geoff realized was that, oddly, the acolyte was not naked.

Although the fellow was bound just as he should have been—at his wrists and his eyes—he wore not his altogether, but a sleeveless linen tunic that hung just below his knees.

And the second thing Geoff realized was that the acolyte wasn't even a
he
.

Someone in the audience gasped.

It wasn't Geoff. He couldn't breathe.

Sutherland, too, was frozen before the altar. Eyes wide, he clutched the
Liber Veritas
to his chest as if he meant to throttle the life from it. His mouth opened and closed silently, then he uttered an odd, gurgling sound—like the last of the dishwater chasing down a kitchen drain.

Propelled by the sound, Ruthveyn shouldered swiftly through the crowd. He extracted the book, then turned to face them all.

“Just whose idea of a joke is this?” he demanded, shaking the book above his head. “By God, let the wretch step forward!”

And the third thing Geoff realized was that the acolyte might nearly as well have
been
naked, for the shift or shirt or whatever it was left little to the imagination. Nonetheless, the girl stood upon the altar straight and proud, despite the ropes that bound her wrists awkwardly before her. She was tall, with high, small breasts that were rising and falling a little too rapidly, a wild mane of inky curls that hung to her waist, and long, slender legs that looked surprisingly strong.

Surprisingly?

Everything about this was surprisingly . . . something. Not to mention erotic, what with all the ropes and blindfolds and yes, those legs . . .

The room was abuzz now. Ruthveyn had found a knife somewhere, and was slicing through the ropes at her wrists. Beside him, Geoff could hear Rance softly chuckling.

In that instant, the girl twisted a little away from Ruthveyn, causing the thin shirt to slither over her hip most suggestively. Blood suddenly surging, Geoff shot Rance a burn-in-hell look, then hastened onto the dais, stripped off his robe, and furled it gently around her.

The girl did not so much as flinch at his touch.

Then, rather more carefully, Ruthveyn cut away the blindfold, which was traditionally worn until the vote to admit the acolyte was taken.

The girl blinked a pair of dark, wide-set eyes, looked out over the crowd, and surprised everyone by speaking in a clear, strong voice.

“I humbly ask for admission to the Brotherhood,” she announced in precise, flawless Latin. “I have earned this right with my Devotion, with my Strength, and with my Blood. And on my honor, I pledge that by my Word and by my Sword, I will defend the Gift, my Faith, my Brotherhood, and all its Dependents, until the last breath of life—”

“No, no, no, no!” Ruthveyn waved an obviating hand. “My dear child, I do not know who has put you up such pranks, but—”

“I did.” Rance's voice, too, was surprisingly strong. “I sponsor this woman for initiation to the Old and Most Noble Order, the
Fraternitas Aureae Crucis
. Aren't those the sponsor's magic words?”

“You
what
?” Geoff found himself saying. “Mother of God, man, have you lost your mind?”

“Indeed, Rance.” Sutherland had finally found his voice. “You've made a joke of an honored and holy ritual. You have gone beyond the pale.”

“Here, here!” grumbled someone in the crowd of brown robes.

Geoff stepped in front of the girl to shield her, but she pushed him away with surprising strength, and stepped down onto the dais.

“
Why
is it beyond the pale, my lords?” she demanded, her accent unmistakably upper-class. “For ten long years I have trained. I have done all that was asked of me, and more, though I never asked for any of this. But because I was asked—nay,
told
that it was my duty—I have given up much of my youth, and I have sacrificed, merely to meet the tasks which were set before me. And now you would deny me my right of Brotherhood?”