“Shall I kill you now?” the prince asked, his face a mask of feigned calm. “Or simply wait until the appointed time? Leave Charles Sinclair and the duchess alone, or else I will remove you from this earth.”
Trent’s cold grey eyes narrowed, and his knuckles whitened around the snifter.
“Do not break that glass,” Romanov warned, his blue eyes sparking fire. “I may just let it remain so, and that would annoy our manager, Mr. Lyle. The poor man frets so about his hotel.”
“Charles Sinclair would see me hang! Does that not concern you?”
“Should it?” he asked, languidly. “It is neither here nor there to me, Sir William, whether you die at the end of a hangman’s rope or by my hand. Which do you prefer?”
Trent slammed the glass into the fireplace, where it shattered into tiny shards and caused the gas fire to flare, setting a nearby chair ablaze. The angel waved his hand, and the errant flames were instantly snuffed; the chair repaired as if nothing had happened.
Anatole rose and walked to the fireplace, picking up a slender shard of curved glass. “My, but you humans have short fuses. You imagine yourself equal to me, do you not, Sir William? But then, that is not even your true name, is it? Perhaps, Aubrey’s team would appreciate a little hint regarding your actual history. Shall I send them a note, or might it be better to end you now, on their behalf?”
Trent opened his mouth to reply, but the prince raised a hand, instantly closing the Redwing leader’s throat without even touching him. Not only could he no longer speak, Sir William could not breathe.
As the fragile human gasped for air, eyes bulging, Anatole gazed at him thoughtfully. “I have often wondered just why it is that the Almighty breathed His spirit into Adam. What is it about your clay bodies that is so very special? I cannot imagine why He chose to make men like you an imager of His holy office. How He dared to grant humans—who are inferiors to me!—the honour of standing in the great council. You are but grass, fodder for animals, little more than a step in a never-ending carbon cycle. A single drop of water in a universe of mighty oceans.”
Trent fell forward, his hands outstretched and clawing, his face crimson. The veins stood out like ropes on his neck, and his legs had begun to spasm. Anatole waved his hand, and sweet air rushed into Trent’s deprived lungs as he sucked it in.
“I grant you a reprieve this time, Sir William. Do not test me again, or I shall see to it that you learn just what eternity holds for you. It is not pretty, my dear Trent. Not pretty at all. Now, cease your alliance with my brother and your secretive plans for dominance. As your kind are fond of saying, you are backing the wrong horse. Raziel and his allies are doomed to extinction.”
He strode forward and yanked Trent up by his coat collar to make one final point. “And if you so much as displace one hair of my duchess’s beautiful head, I shall make sure that your eternal punishment befits your debauched, earthly pleasures. Everything you have done unto others shall be done unto you a thousandfold. Like that maid that you ripped apart, and the singer whose flesh you and your friends consumed, your body will provide a playground unlike any other, and my fallen brethren will howl with delight even as our demons devour you, again and again, for all time.”
Chapter Twenty-One
9:27 pm – Queen Anne House
Charles Sinclair paced back and forth inside the drawing room, barely able to keep his temper. After learning of the duchess’s accidental fall, James and Paul Stuart had dismissed the circle members, asking them to reconvene Friday morning at ten. With Price tending to the Branham measles cases in Kent, Dr. Reginald Whitmore had been summoned from retirement, and the physician now examined the duchess whilst the earl did his best to console his friend.
“You can trust Whitmore,” Aubrey assured the worried marquess. “Reggie’s been with the circle for nearly thirty years. Next to George Price, he’s the first I’d call to look after Beth. She’s in good hands, Charles.”
“But how did she fall? Why?” Sinclair moaned. “I know I keep asking that same question, but it’s imperative we learn the answer. Did she grow dizzy? Did she trip? Was she pushed? What?”
“Della said she found her at the bottom of the first landing, Charles. That is all we know,” the earl replied. “And who would push her?”
“No one human,” he muttered, but before his cousin could ask what he meant, Victoria Stuart entered the drawing room, her aspect pale and weary.
“Well, she’s out of danger,” the spinster announced, standing in the doorway and trying to light a cigarette. Her hands shook wildly, and the earl helped her to a chair, lighting the cheroot for her. “Thank you,” she said softly. “Honestly, I’ve not been this upset since August, when that awful Romanian left her in such a state!”
“What Romanian?” the earl asked. “Do you mean that meddlesome prince?”
She nodded. “Yes. Razarit. He seemed pleasant enough at first, but he turned rather dark once you’d gone.”
Charles leaned against the fireplace mantel, struggling to remain on his feet from fatigue and worry. “Is she all right?”
“Reggie can tell you all about it, but yes, I think so. He was concerned about her head, for there’s a swelling at the back. You noticed it, I’m sure, when you carried her upstairs, Charles.”
“I only noticed how pale she looked, Tory. How vulnerable. How did she fall? We must find out!”
Whitmore entered, and Sinclair turned to speak with him, anxiety painting his face with a pale brush. “How is she, Doctor?”
“I’d take a brandy, if you can spare it,” the tall physician said. Paul poured, and the doctor drained the glass in one gulp. “I’m getting too old for this,” he added, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
The sixty-three-year-old, former circle member was still quite handsome and stood a whisper under six foot five. His light grey eyes held the bright light of high intelligence, and a ready smile paired nicely with a thick shock of silver hair that curled slightly over his high forehead. His tweed suitcoat broadened at the shoulders, and his waist was still trim, despite his age.
“Do pardon my manners, Lady Victoria,” he begged the elder Stuart. “Oh, thank you, Lord Aubrey,” Whitmore said as the earl refilled his glass with brandy. “Lord Haimsbury, the duchess is going to be fine. No concussion that I can discern, but she’ll need to rest for a day or two. Forgive the wait, but I wanted to speak with her long enough to assess her memory, vision, and speech. The duchess does not remember the fall, but tells me the last she recalls is deciding to come downstairs to speak to you, Lord Haimsbury. She’s not sure why. Has she been prone to spells of late?”
“She fainted yesterday, and later experienced a slight balance problem on the stairs. Also, she’s complained of headaches recently,” Victoria answered.
Charles stared at his aunt. “A balance problem? Tory, why haven’t you mentioned this before?”
“I said nothing, because Beth asked me not to, and she seemed fine shortly afterward. Price said it was probably just fatigue. But, Reggie, Elizabeth also grew overheated at the theatre on Tuesday evening, and then later fainted at my brother’s home. Might it be something more than fatigue? We have several maids with measles just now.”
“Price told me that the duchess had measles when she was five, so I’m sure it isn’t that,” Whitmore said, his grey eyes turning thoughtful. He looked to the earl who stood near the fireplace. “Lord Aubrey, is it possible that the old trouble has returned? You know of what I speak.”
“Yes, it’s possible. Probable, in fact, but I’d hoped it wouldn’t affect her health as before,” the earl answered, looking uncomfortably at Sinclair. “Charles knows nothing of this, Reggie.”
Sinclair stared at his cousin. “But he should know about it,” he said, clearly irritated. “What is this ‘old trouble’?”
Aubrey paused for a moment, gathering his tho
ughts. “Charles, it has to do with the Shadow, which you already know about, but Beth suffered some physical ailments whilst growing up that may trace their root to that creature’s influence.”
“Physical ailments? Price told me that, other than the normal childhood diseases, Beth was rarely ill. Now you tell me something different. Which is true?” Sinclair demanded, his voice deep, and anger darkening his eyes.
“Price spoke truly,” Aubrey replied. “We’re not referring to traditional illness, Charles. I imagine Reggie can enlighten you more than I, or perhaps the duke—or even Tory. In truth, most of Elizabeth’s problems occurred in my absence, but each time they emerged, I’m told that she was prone to fainting and memory loss.”
Victoria Stuart sat in a small armchair in one corner of the room. Whitmore’s gaze fell upon the woman with surprising fondness. “Lady Victoria, did the duchess continue to suffer whilst in Paris?”
Tory crushed her cigarette into the dish as if it had lost all taste. “Reggie, if you ask whether Beth suffered from the old trials whilst in my care, the answer is no. Well, probably not. She did experience from severe emotional episodes on occasion, but those had a far different root.”
Sinclair stepped forward, his mind imagining the worst, his eyes now fixed upon his aunt’s face. “Just what root is that?”
“You, my dear. You.”
“I? How could I possibly have anything to do with Beth at that time?”
Paul interrupted. “Tory’s not saying you were to blame, Charles. Not wittingly at least, but Elizabeth suffered from a very strong attachment to you—and before you speak, you were not available, my friend. Though abandoned by your wife, you were still legally married; let us not forget that. Tory, I believe Reggie refers only to this Shadow Man who so bedeviled her childhood. Did Beth ever mention him whilst living with you?”
“She did, but only as a dream, nothing more. She did go through a period of being rather unsteady on her feet, but it lasted only a few weeks. Dr. Calvet thought her the victim of an insect bite and mild blood poisoning, but she healed completely shortly after. Price thinks Beth suffers from a case of nervous prostration over the wedding plans. Might that be the cause of her dizzy spells, Reggie?”
“It might be, but considering Elizabeth’s past, I prefer not to assume anything. For now, I suggest that she not ride or participate in activities which might overstimulate. She’s never to use stairs unless accompanied, and make certain that she eats. She seems thin to me.”
The elder Stuart’s brows arched. “Yes, Price mentioned that as well, and the dressmaker even commented on it. Madame du Monde thought it nothing to worry about, though. She says brides often lose and even gain in the weeks before the wedding day, and that anxiety might cause digestive issues. I’m sure that’s why she vomited this afternoon.”
Charles spun ‘round and glared at his aunt. “Am I invisible in this house? Why am I only now hearing this?”
“Do forgive me, Nephew,” Stuart said, “but Elizabeth asked me to say nothing about it, as she didn’t wish to worry you. I wired George and mentioned the symptom, and he returned a message saying it was most likely nerves, especially given last night’s nightmare. Anyone would be physically ill with such dreams, my dear. I’m sure it’s nothing.”
Reggie cleared his throat, his eyes thoughtful. “Tell me, Lady Victoria, just how long has the duchess complained of an unsettled stomach?”
“She said it started last Friday. After the dressmaker mentioned Beth’s being thin, I spoke with her about it, and she admitted to feeling rather unsettled around food, and that she’s had little appetite. She ate well at luncheon, though, I thought—until she lost it, that is.”
“But at supper tonight, she hardly touched her plate,” Charles said, looking at Aubrey. “I’m sorry, everyone. Forgive my temper. I’m just worried.”
“As are we all, Cousin. Reggie, I’ll see you out.”
Charles walked to the door. “No, Paul. I’ll do it. I’ve a question to put to the good doctor. Would you and Tory look in on Beth for me?”
Victoria took her nephew’s arm and nodded towards Sinclair. “We shall be happy to do so, Charles. Good night, Reggie. I trust we’ll see you at the wedding?”
Whitmore’s seamed face opened into a handsome smile. “I wouldn’t miss it for all the world, Tory. And perhaps you’ll finally give me that dance you owe me,” he finished with a wink.
Bowing once more to Lady Victoria, the dapper physician followed the marquess out the entryway and onto the front portico of the mansion, where the two men descended the wide steps, passed through the massive pillars, and stepped onto the gravel drive, where the doctor’s carriage awaited, the chestnut mare’s breath clouding the cool, night air.
“Dr. Whitmore, is it possible that there is another explanation for Elizabeth’s current state of health?” Sinclair asked as they stood beside the coach.
Whitmore’s silver brows rose high. “Do you still worry about measles? I know of no cases where someone has contracted the disease twice.”
“No. Not an illness, but another—health issue. I only ask because I love her, Doctor.”
“Of course, you do. Elizabeth loves you, too,” he said. “She kept asking if you were nearby. I think she worries about something, though. I hope you understand, Lord Haimsbury, that I’ve not often treated the duchess. Price has been her primary physician ever since her birth. I’ve merely consulted now and then, whenever she was in London.”
“I would appreciate your candour, sir. Did you find anything about her present state that rings alarm bells? Please, Doctor, if you have any theories, any at all, I would hear them.”
“You know all about the spiritual aspects of her previous troubles, of course?”
Charles nodded. “I do. Or, at least, I think I do. The duke and Paul explained as much as they could manage in the short time I’ve been with the inner circle. I’m new to this battle, you see, but I have already witnessed that spiritual activity firsthand. Beth and I were victims of it more than once in Scotland and earlier at Branham.”
Whitmore tapped the tall hat against his thigh, pondering his next words. “Yes, I know a little about that. The duke paid a call on me last week and told me what happened. Charles—may I call you that?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Thank you. Charles, I’ve witnessed things in my time with the circle that would drive most men mad, but always—always, the Lord has prevailed. I’m sure you’ve already heard all about the history of King Henry’s twins and how their blood intersects with your life and your fiancée’s—and how it will now intersect with that of any children you have. That night in the cottage, the duke tells me that it was designed to force you and Elizabeth to marry. Is that so?”
Charles weighed his response. Can I trust this man? “You’ll understand, sir, that I’m reluctant to reveal too much.”
“Ah, you worry that another physician might betray the circle. Is that it?”
“I worry because it is my job to do so, Dr. Whitmore. Beth relies upon me for protection. How much did my uncle tell you?”
Whitmore’s grey eyes looked with kindness upon the younger man. “You’re very much like your good father. He’d have put me through a long interrogation, if he thought there were even the slightest chance I might bring harm to his family. You’re right to use caution, but I love Elizabeth. We all do.” He paused for a moment, his eyes on the marquess. “To answer your question, the duke told me everything. The potion that was administered in the tea, Lemuel’s betrayal and drugging of the duchess, the night in the cottage—and of the dreams you and Elizabeth experienced. You think she’s pregnant, don’t you? Well, in truth, so do I.”
Charles stared at the taller man, his hearing suddenly lost to all but a rising east wind echoing the single word: pregnant. Redwing had wanted a child, and they’d arranged a magical working
to create the son needed for their fallen god to arise. It cannot be! Surely...
Whitmore placed a comforting hand on the marquess’s shoulder. “Son, what’s done is done. The duke places no blame; in fact, he feels only love and admiration for you. However, if Elizabeth is with child, then you must be all the more vigilant where Redwing is concerned. I’m sure you’ve already thought of that.”
“You say you think that she is with child, but how can we be certain?”
“It’s early for her to exhibit such strong symptoms, but not impossible. My expertise lies in surgery. You should speak to Price about it, when he arrives back here tomorrow. George has delivered many babies over the years. A hundred or more, I’d say. Though, he’s told me that he plans to retire this year, so you should probably begin looking about for his replacement. I’ve a young friend who could serve as a second opinion, if you wish. His name’s Michael Emerson, and he’s a specialist in women’s health—a new field called obstetrics. Michael’s father is Lord Braxton, an old friend to the duke.”
Charles felt at a loss for words, but he shook the man’s hand, his knees somewhat weak. “Honestly, I’ve been half expecting to learn she’s with child, but to hear a physician actually say it, makes it all very real. I was not the best of fathers to my son. How do I know I won’t make the same mistakes?”
“You don’t,” Whitmore said simply. “But you’re not alone. Your family will help to shoulder this added burden, so put your faith in the Lord, all right? Redwing may think they’ve accomplished their wicked plans, but the Lord works all things together for good, does he not?”
“For those who are called according to his purposes,” Sinclair finished. “But am I so called? If so, then it does little to calm my heart, Doctor.”
“Reggie,” he said. “Just call me Reggie. I live only five minutes away by coach, so I’m available anytime you have a need, or if you ever just wish to talk. I’ve a fine cellar and plenty o’ time.” Whitmore squinted into the starry skies. “Winter’s chill is in the air. We may even have snow before the month is out.” He took a deep breath and turned back to the detective. “Charles, I knew your father well, and I see his intelligence in your eyes. It’s clear that you love Elizabeth deeply, and I’d even go so far as to suggest that you and she have always been meant to be together. You’re her guardian now, so keep careful watch on shadows. If you ever see one that cannot be explained, seek the Lord’s mercies. Haimsbury House has many doors, and not all of them are subject to physical locks, if you get my meaning.”
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