The prince paused, his almond-shaped eyes fixed on Sinclair’s. The marquess exerted every ounce of will in his being to avoid blinking, and the air in the room seemed to thicken as the two men faced off against one another.
“Might a mere mortal not crumble to dust in the face of so formidable an enemy?” Romanov continued, intentionally baiting the detective. “What defences could any frail human mount against such a powerful Shadow?”
Sinclair refused to even twitch. “The same defence available to all who would claim it, Your Highness,” he said, stepping closer. “The saving blood of the only perfect sacrifice. That of Christ Jesus, only begotten Son of the Almighty.”
Anatole’s dark brows knit together in concentration, and he advanced forwards. The two men now stood toe to toe, the Russian taller than Sinclair by four inches. Neither man blinked, until at last, Anatole forced a thin laugh and stepped back slightly, a practised smile pasted upon his lean features. “Well put. The blood is always the source of true power. The blood is the life, is it not? I’m glad you see it, my Scottish friend, oh but wait you are English, are you not?”
“Half English, half Scottish,” Sinclair replied, taking a glass of wine from a tray as Booth intentionally passed through the thick knot of men.
“Quite so,” the Russian replied. “One might say that you stand with one foot in each world, Lord Haimsbury. A human bridge of sorts. Carlisle, isn’t it?”
“Southeast of there, but in Cumbria,” Charles replied. “Our family seat stands atop a hill overlooking Eden River.”
“Ah, yes,” Romanov said. “How very apt. Do you know the legends surrounding that river? The pagan stories of witches and wolves? They reach back to the time of Hadrian’s Wall and even earlier. Blood covered those undulating shores and valleys once, my friend. As I said, blood is currency to such practitioners—both those born of flesh and of spirit. Human blood, in particular.”
The contessa’s dark eyes flashed hungrily at this. “Human blood is an energy source to these entities, is it not, Your Highness? Something used in rites and rituals written long ago, when the world was young.”
“Ah, yes! Those were halcyon days,” Anatole whispered, almost to himself. “Such magnificence! Such ethereal beauty. A glory no longer available to human eyes. Torn down in blood and anger. Forever lost in fading mists of time and memory.”
Romanov grew silent, his features softening into regret and despair for a moment, but he quickly recovered, assuming his former hauteur. “Mr. Stoker, you are Irish, no? No doubt, your Irish legends create in you a yearning for that which man cannot see. The Tuatha De Danann, ancient tribe of the goddess. Nuada, Bres, and the great warrior Lugh. Your magnificent prose depicts worlds beyond the mundane, and tonight, in the tradition of your forefathers, you’ve given us a production with a similar, supernatural theme. A tale of blood and bedevilment, and from what I observed, your audience relished every moment. Before long, blood will cover London’s theatrical stages, almost as much as it covers the cobbles of her streets. Left unchecked, a man might actually drown in it.”
Elizabeth had stood when Puccini arrived, and now spoke with him and Kepelheim near the piano. However, the intense war of words that had passed betwixt Charles and Anatole left her heart pounding in sync with her earlier fears, and she leaned heavily against the instrument, catching Charles by the hand as he returned to her side. “Please, Captain, I must sit,” she said softly.
The marquess led her to a chair, where she might find a moment without another beside her, for he’d noticed that the Russian prince seemed quite fond of pressing close to his beloved Beth, in a most ungentlemanly fashion. “Would you like more water, darling?” he asked her sweetly. “Perhaps, wine? I can ask Booth to bring tea, if you prefer it.”
She shook her head. “No, nothing, really. I’m merely weary. You must grow tired, too, Charles, for you were awake much of last night and took no opportunity to rest today.”
“We may leave anytime you wish. You have but to ask, and I’ll remove you to our home.”
“Soon,” she said, her eyes upon the prince. “He seems strangely familiar to me, but I cannot reason out why. Something about his eyes, I think. He is certainly tall. Did you hear the contessa say the prince is a direct descendant of Peter the Great? I’ve read that the tsar was also a man of unusual stature. Perhaps, it is an inherited trait.”
“It’s a rare man who towers over me in London,” the marquess noted with a genuine smile.
“Peter the Great was reputed to be nearly seven feet, though some say it was closer to six foot eight, which is still almost five inches taller than you, friend Charles,” Kepelheim said as he joined the couple. “I have an eye for height, and I would guess this prince to be easily six foot seven, possibly a tad bit more. His attire is quite smart, though. I wonder if he uses a London tailor.”
Beth laughed at last. “You are all tall to me!” she said, her eyes turning bright for a moment—a great relief to the men around her. “Even you, Mr. Kepelheim.”
The tailor’s face blushed slightly, and he lifted his glass to her as if to toast. “I shall drink to that, dear lady. For mine is but an average height.”
“But yours is not an average mind, nor is it an average talent,” she returned.
Adele came over then and kissed Elizabeth on the cheek. “Uncle James says I must bid you goodnight, dear Cousin. My governess, Miss Chandler, calls me to slumber. Thank you for taking me to the theatre. I wonder, Cousin Charles, if I might ask a favour?”
“What’s that, little cousin?” he asked, taking her hands.
“When you arrest this man called Ripper, let him know that he will have to answer to my family, if he ever hurts anyone else. Will you tell him that?”
“If the opportunity presents itself, I shall pass along your message,” he promised. “Goodnight, darling. Sweet dreams.”
“Oh, Cousin Charles,” she added as she started to leave, “did you know that Aunt Victoria ordered a new dress for me to wear for your wedding? Is that not wonderful? I’ve not seen it, of course. Have you seen it, Cousin Beth?”
“No, dear,” she answered. “Madam du Monde has not yet begun to sew it, but I’m told it will be made of fine satin and embroidered silk, and will be a smaller version of my own dress. I cannot reveal more, since Charles mustn’t know any of our secret details until the morning when he sees us enter the chapel.”
Adele laughed. “Cousin Charles, shall I wear two hats for your wedding?”
He drew the girl in for a warm hug. “Of course! Two brand- new wedding hats. One upon each of your beautiful heads!”
She giggled, kissing him fondly. “I’m glad that if Cousin Beth is to marry, that it is you, Charles. And one day soon, perhaps, I shall marry a prince!”
She skipped away, and Charles watched as Adele Marie Stuart left her special peace and joy throughout the room.
“She reminds me of you at that age,” he told Elizabeth. “You weren’t much younger when we first met.”
“That is when my true life began, Charles, though the circumstances still wear upon me at times.”
“I hope to replace all the darkness in your life with sunshine, little one,” he said, kissing her cheek.
Kepelheim had left momentarily to huddle with the composer, and now both gentlemen appeared before the duchess. “Your Grace,” the tailor began, “I have been telling Señor Puccini about your remarkable voice, and he informs me that he’s brought with him a new opera, which he only now composes, and he wonders if you would care to sing an aria he has just this week finished.”
“Oh, Mr. Kepelheim, that would be a great honour, but truly, my sight-singing is quite inferior to that which Señor Puccini is accustomed.”
“Nonsense, dear lady! I have seen you breeze through new material as if born singing it. He rarely asks such of strangers, but I have told him of your bea
utiful gift, and he feels this aria was written for your voice. You would be the first to sing it.”
Puccini came closer and bowed deeply. “Bella Duchessa, would you permit me hear my music sung by your so lovely soprano?” he asked, bowing a second time.
Charles looked at his fiancée. “Beth, if you’re too weary, just say no.”
She sighed. “How can I? Composers rarely ask such things of amateurs, Captain. Besides, it would spoil Mr. Kepelheim’s plans, would it not?”
Sinclair smiled, his azure eyes glistening with pride. “I do love hearing you sing,” he said as he helped her from the chair.
The men all stood as Beth crossed to the piano. The composer clapped his hands. “Attenzione, tutti! My new friend, the bella duchessa, say she will now sing from Manon Lescaut, which opera I am now write. This big aria for Manon, where she try to escape from her old life and…como si dice ‘abbandonata’ in Inglese, Duchessa?”
“Abandonment, loneliness,” Elizabeth said softly, overlooking the music on the piano. “Oh, Señor, this is a tragic song! Some of you speak Italian, but for those who do not, I shall attempt to set the scene,” she said. “Señor, it is based on Prévost’s story of the same name, of course?”
Puccini nodded.
“This then, if our gifted composer follows the original, is about a pair of lovers, a brave chevalier and his beautiful but rather greedy courtesan. The settings move from Paris to Louisiana in the United States, and the opera, I presume, as with the story, ends tragically with her death. Is that correct, Señor?”
Again the maestro nodded. “Do you need warm up?”
She shook her head. “No, but I do beg your indulgence, especially from our special guests for the poor quality of my sight-singing.”
She nodded, and the composer began a long introduction, which set up a contemplative musical soliloquy. As Beth sang, her agile voice took the plaintive lines with little effort, and Mr. Kepelheim, who now sat near Charles, translated the lyrics for his friend.
“Manon, the tempestuous courtesan, sings of being lost and dreadfully lonely,” he whispered. “It is a tragic tale. She and her lover, Des Grieux, have wandered into a desert wilderness, trying to escape the political intrigues of New Orleans. They are dying of thirst, and Des Grieux abandons her to find water. During his absence, she looks back on her life, on her fateful choices, and Manon believes herself all alone without a true friend. She fears dying and sings of her own fatal beauty, which has doomed her to this life of—how shall we say it, travelling as a man’s companion? She sees her entire life as covered in blood and despair. Poor Manon does not wish to die, but she fears it rises up to meet her, and now, she pleads for help. Finally resigned to her fate, she invokes the tomb to release her from a world of ignominy and fear. She is ready to die, but at the last moment, Des Grieux returns, and seeing her great love, she begs him to save her—to help her, but it is too late, and Manon collapses into her lover’s arms—dead.”
Charles’s heart ached as he heard his dearest love sing such hopeless, mournful words. His gaze was riveted upon her face as she sang the final line in character of the despondent Manon, begging the chevalier for help, No! non voglio morir. Amore, aita! (I don’t want to die. Help me, my love!)
At the final piano note, everyone stood, applauding vigourously, and the little maestro more than all the rest. “Brava, bella Duchessa! Bravissima!” he cried out.
Elizabeth smiled graciously as the composer kissed her hand, and then she turned towards Anatole. The tall Russian had manoeuvred once again to be near to her side as he congratulated her on the aria. His body pressed intimately close to hers, and Beth grew pale and swayed slightly, trying to steady herself on the piano, but then as if enacting the final lines of the aria, the duchess suddenly collapsed into the prince’s arms.
The music room erupted into a chaotic clatter of concern, the Stuart men pushing towards her, but it was Anatole who carried the duchess to one of two empty sofas along the north wall beyond the piano. The prince knelt beside her, feeling Beth’s pulse and checking her breathing.
Charles and Paul tried to help, but the contessa blocked their way. “Anatole is a skilled practitioner of the medical arts. He has attended even the tsar in time of need!”
The prince felt Beth’s forehead and face. He even had the temerity to run his fingers along her ribcage and abdomen, holding his hand there for several moments, his head tilted towards her body, as if listening.
Outraged and no longer caring about social protocol, Sinclair pushed past the countess, but the prince stood suddenly, smoothly, and turned with a formal bow.
“Forgive me, Lord Haimsbury. I merely wished to see if perhaps her capacity for breath is impeded. Ladies’ fashion designers seldom consider what is best for their customers’ health.”
Sinclair glared at Romanov. “How dare you!” he seethed.
The contessa started to intervene, but the Russian held her back, bowing once more towards the marquess. “Again, Lord Haimsbury, I beg your forgiveness,” the prince said smoothly. “I am at fault.”
Charles knelt beside the duchess. “Beth, can you hear me?” he whispered into her ear. “Darling?”
Her eyes opened slightly, and she whispered ever so softly, her voice like that of a child. “Take me home, Captain.”
Sinclair needed no further word, and he lifted her into his arms and headed into the foyer. “James, will you make our apologies?”
The duke followed them to the door, where Booth had already sent a footman to summon a coach and driver. “Edwards will see you safely home, son,” the duke said referring to his best coachman.
Paul joined his cousin and uncle at the door. “I’ll go with them,” Aubrey said. “Keep an eye on your guests, Uncle. That prince is an evil one.”
The duke’s black brows arched mischievously. “Why do you think I invited him? Keep your enemies close, dear nephews. And keep them talking until they spill their secrets.”
Booth led them to the front drive and signaled for the duke’s driver and coach, and in moments, they were away.
Within fifteen minutes, the cousins had returned Elizabeth to Queen Anne House, where Charles carried her up to the master apartment.
Alicia hastened in to help as the marquess opened the door to the suite. “Is my lady ill? Has she caught this fever, sir?”
“No, the duchess is merely fatigued, I think. It’s been a long day and an even longer evening. Here, darling,” he whispered to Beth. “Alicia will help with your clothes. I’ll leave you until tomorrow, and Paul will keep watch tonight. We will never leave you unprotected.”
“I don’t know what happened,” she said as she sat on the side of the large four-poster bed, her eyes bleary. “A good night’s rest will surely return my vigour.”
“The evening simply ran too late for you,” he said, kissing her hand. “Victoria promised to put you on a strict schedule as the wedding approaches. Too much excitement will wear you out, and I’ll not have that.” Beth tried to smile, but it was forced, and he could see something worried her. “Alicia, would you mind giving us a few moments in private?” he asked.
The maid curtseyed, but stood her ground. “Lady Victoria would be very cross, if I leave my lady unchaperoned, my lord.”
“Yes, I imagine she would,” he answered gently, “but direct my aunt to me if she speaks so much as one harsh word to you, Alicia. I sit just beyond that door all through the night, so I see no harm in five minutes of quiet talk. And talk is all we’ll do. I promise.”
Alicia Mallory blushed to the roots of her strawberry blonde hair. “Sir! I... Well, that is... I...uh,” she stammered. Then without another word, she fled the room.
Charles closed the chamber door slightly, leaving it ajar so that no one could accuse him of anything improper. “She’s a delightful young woman, but somewhat shy,” he said, turning back towar
ds Beth. “You are all right, I hope?”
“I think so. Sit, please, Captain,” she said, patting the edge of the bed. Seeing the look on his face, she explained. “It will be all right.”
“And if Victoria finds out?” he asked, sitting beside her. “I’ve no wish to be scolded by my aunt again. She may be loving, but her bite is much worse than that of her dog!”
“Yes, she told me about that, and she regrets the misunderstanding,” the duchess whispered, holding his hand. “No one will think anything of it. I promise. Paul used to come in and visit with me, whenever he stayed at Queen Anne.”
Sinclair’s animated left brow arched high, and his head tilted to one side. “And how recently was this?”
“I think the last time was when I was twelve,” she answered, stroking his cheek. “You’ve no reason for jealousy, my darling.”
“I? Jealous of my own cousin? Well, yes, actually I am, but only because Paul’s been able to spend so many years in your company. Because I lost my family as a boy, I’ve missed being part of the Stuart clan, but most of all, I’ve missed being part of your life.”
“But the Lord has given us another chance, hasn’t he? Oh, Charles, soon we shall be married! Isn’t it marvellous? The play tonight and even Señor Puccini’s aria focused on tragedy, but I want to think only of joy from now on.”
He kissed her cheek, running his fingers along the curve of her right ear. “I shall make it my life’s work to see to it that only happiness is allowed in your life, little one.”
She leaned against his shoulder for a moment, her hand in his. “I love it when you call me that. It makes me feel protected and loved. But all is well, isn’t it? Before you left the house this morning, you seemed quite content, but a cloud of worry came home with you. Is it because of my reaction to that postcard?”
“Of course not. Darling, you had every right to react that way. I’d invaded your privacy.”
Blood Rites Page 20