“No, actually, I’m not. I’m trying to explain something important. Do you remember that night?” she asked again.
“How could I forget?” he answered, kissing her hand. “I’d feared that you would hate me when you learnt the truth, but instead you said that it made you love me all the more.”
“Yes, and I love Della all the more, too,” she reminded him.
“Why do you bring it up, Princess? Surely, you’ve not changed your mind.”
“Of course not, but I’d intended to tell you a secret of my own that night. Do you remember?”
His dark brows rose in surprise. “I’d forgotten, actually. Charles had become ill, and we were interrupted.”
“Yes. He was terribly ill and spent three days in a state of dreams, half-conscious with fever and chills. You and my grandfather started having a series of private meetings after that, and then the wolf attacked, and...”
“And Charles proposed. Yes, darling, I remember all that. Why do you bring it up?”
She took a deep breath to steady her nerves. “Because I really must tell you my secret. Charles and my grandfather, both, have urged me to keep it to myself until after the wedding, but you deserve to know. Paul, you have been my closest, dearest friend for all my life. How can I not tell you?”
“Darling, if Charles has asked you to keep it secret, then you must do as he asks.”
She shook her head. “No. In this one case, I must disobey him. He will be cross, but I owe you this.” She began to weep, and he put his arm around her. “Oh, Paul, you are going to hate me!”
“Never. Not for one second of time could I hate you.”
“Oh, but you will; I know you will, but you must promise not to hate Charles.”
He pulled back, looking at her in confusion. “Hate Charles? Why would I do that? What has he to do with your secret?”
She began to tremble, her voice high and nervous. “The night at the cottage. That small farm near Dr. Lemuel’s house. Charles and I stayed there after the doctor was shot.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that.”
“Charles and I were alone in that cottage, and someone had put poison into the tea. Do you remember?”
“Yes, Beth, of course, I remember,” he told her. “We feared for you both. Charles was delirious, and you were unresponsive. Both your eyes showed signs of some dark drug. Dear, where is this all going?”
She swallowed hard, her lower lip trembling. “Charles thinks we may have suffered from more than poison that night. Grandfather told me that Laurence and his men discovered wolf tracks as well as human footprints all ‘round the cottage grounds and beneath the windows. As if someone performed a ritual of some kind whilst we were there.”
He sighed. “I know all this, Beth. We’ve discussed it many times in our meetings,” he replied, his deep voice tinged with irritation.
“Then, you surely must know that the combination of enchantment and poison had altered our ability to make... Well, to make free will choices.”
His face paled to ash. “Free will choices? Beth, what are you saying?”
She bit her lower lip, her breath catching in her throat. “I’m saying...that I am pregnant.”
All colour in the earl’s face drained away, followed by a sudden flush of anger that infused the pale skin with angry patches of crimson. He jumped to his feet, both hands clenched. “How dare he force himself on you! He is thirteen years your senior and knows better. Charles claims to love you, yet he would do this to you? Force you? I shall kill him! With my bare hands, I will wring every last breath from his traitorous lungs!”
“No, Paul, please! He did no such thing!” she implored, reaching for his hands, but he eluded her, stepping backwards as if trying to remove himself bodily from the shock.
“How can you expect me to think anything else?” the earl shouted. “Beth, he took advantage of you. Charles is much more experienced, and you—my darling, you are an innocent. No amount of enchantment or poison can explain such selfish, such appalling behaviour!”
He turned away from her, for he felt completely lost. His Elizabeth had forever altered—forever been altered. Charles Sinclair had stolen a gift that should have been his! Now, Elizabeth would never be—could never be the same.
“You hate me,” she wept, and the anguish in her voice broke his heart.
“No, no, of course, I do not,” he assured her, falling to his knees and taking her small hands in his own. “But how can I not be angry, Beth? How can you expect me to simply pass it off as nothing? Charles did take advantage of you! He must have done!”
“He did not,” she said simply, tears sliding down her cheeks. “Charles told my grandfather all that happened the very next day, and he wanted to confess it all to you, but I insisted that I be the one to tell you. Then, he fell into a fever, and time passed. Each day brought new challenges. Charles told the duke that he feared I might have conceived, Paul, but he would have stepped aside had I chosen you as husband. Charles knew it might mean abandoning his own child, yet he would have made that sacrifice, because he loves us both. If you think him blameworthy, then you could not be more wrong. Do you really think either of us would betray you that way? Both of us love you! I love you.”
He began to weep, his head in her lap like a penitent child. “I don’t know how to feel,” he admitted. “Honestly, I grow numb with the anguish of it. Beth, I want to hate him, but in truth I do love Charles. He is the brother I lacked as a child, but that love only sharpens the edge of this cruel blade. It is a pain—a betrayal beyond all description!”
“And what of my betrayal? Do you also hate me?” she whispered.
“I could never hate you, Elizabeth. I love you more than I love life. If you asked me to fall upon that blade—drive it into my heart, I would do it.”
She stroked his chestnut hair, wiping the tears from his face. “And if I asked for your forgiveness? For Charles?”
“Dying is easier,” he admitted.
She took his hand and placed it upon her abdomen. “If George and Reggie are correct, then a tiny life now rests within my body. You often speak of how you took me as a baby in your arms and became my guardian. I ask you now to become guardian to this dear life. A boy. A girl. I cannot say, but he or she needs you. Would you ignore that need in favour of vengeance?”
“Of course, I would not, but you’ve had time to adjust to this. Allow me the same, won’t you?” he begged her. “Perhaps, by morning, I might find the repose you so need of me.”
She pulled him back onto the sofa, and he folded her into his arms. “I shall always need you as my knight, Lord Aubrey. It is selfish of me, I know, but it is true nonetheless. I cannot stop loving you, no matter how my life may alter. Your very name is etched upon my soul.”
“And yours on mine,” he admitted. “I understand now why Charles has been so worried about you, and I shall join him in worrying, I suppose. Beth, I still love my cousin, but it seems to me that he did take advantage of you,” he told her. “No, no. You needn’t plead his case any further. Inside my head, I believe your testimony, but my heart is the problem, you see. It aches with anguish and regret.”
“Regret?” she asked. “Why?”
“Because it should have been I who rode to your rescue that night,” he confessed.
“And if you’d fallen prey to the same poison and enchantment?”
“Then, this would be my child within you,” he whispered, and the agony in his voice broke her heart. “Forgive me. That was unfair, and I should never have said it. Pray for me, Beth. I want to understand. I do. It is just...difficult.”
She kissed his cheek, but without thinking—almost instinctively—he pulled her into his arms and took her lips. They’d not kissed this way in many weeks; not since she’d accepted Sinclair’s proposal, and his desperation drew her into a depth of feeling that frighten
ed Elizabeth. She did love the earl, only not in the same way she loved Sinclair. Stuart’s faithfulness and steadfast love formed the bedrock upon which her entire life was built.
But Charles—her handsome Captain—he was her future. Beth felt connected to him as to no other human on earth. Charles kept her anchored to reality. Without his tether, she would forever be lost.
Aubrey released her, shock and regret painting his lean features. “Forgive me. Oh, please, forgive me, Beth. I had no right to do that. None at all.”
She encircled his waist, her head against his chest. “If you can forgive me, my darling knight, then it is easily forgotten.”
He helped her to bed, and then rang for the lady’s maid. “I’ve a few things to do, but I shan’t be long. An hour, no more. I can send up another pot of cocoa, if you wish. To settle your stomach.”
She smiled, still holding his hand. “That would be lovely. Thank you, Paul.”
The earl bowed and then left the apartment, his cheeks burning from embarrassment and guilt. He had to find a way to forgive both his cousins, but for the moment, that ability seemed very far away.
Chapter Eleven
11:41pm
Mansell Street in Whitechapel sat only four blocks west of the Leman Street police station, forming the western edge of a large square with Great Alie Street to the north, Great Prescot to the south, and Leman to the east. Within this enclosure, stood a smaller square formed by Tenter Streets North, South, East, and West. The neighbourhood was a mixture of decaying tenement houses, goods yards, rundown churches, public works buildings, a police mews, and two public houses. The Widows Home stood at the southeast corner of Great Prescot, not far from Garrick Theatre, with the Jewish Men’s Refuge on a corner nearby.
Mansell also hosted a congregation of abandoned warehouses, four of which had once belonged to Dryden Imports, now defunct and bankrupted into receivership; their slowly deteriorating buildings listed with the tax assessor’s office for a quick sale. Being empty and isolated, these provided the perfect meeting place for the London branch of Redwing.
“Rasha is late,” Sir William Trent complained, glancing at his pocket watch. “You did remind him?”
“Of course, I did,” di Specchio answered as she took a seat at the large, circular table. “Is the altar arranged?”
“It is complete and prepared for our guest’s enjoyment,” Sir Clive Urquhart answered, handing a black silk cloak to a heavy-set doorman. “Prince Anatole is coming? He has sent word, yes?”
“Tolya will not be joining us tonight; and possibly never will again,” the countess replied. “I suspect that he is afraid to face the elohim whom he imprisoned.”
“And who wouldn’t be?” laughed a red-haired man in formal dress as he took the chair beside the contessa.
“My dear Sir Christopher,” she cooed. “I’d feared our new mayor’s party might ensnare you tonight. Is our overtaxed estate agent to attend, or does he still linger in hospital?”
“We’ll see no more of Lewis Merriweather,” the man replied, smiling. “Honoria, do sit by me.”
Slowly, the table began to fill with men and women who wielded great power in England: Sir Christopher Holding, owner of a major ironworks company that supplied metal to the shipping industry; Mrs. Honoria Chandler, the widow of David Chandler, founder of Brighton Stone and Pebble, a quarry that provided construction materials to the city of London; Lord Peter Andrews, a lifetime peer and politician who’d led the 1877 negotiations in Cyprus; Alvin Meyerbridge, munitions manufacturer, specialising in production of rapid-fire armaments; Dr. Laurence Malford-Jones, a chemist who pioneered methods for birth control and altering the human species; Gerald St. Ives, 5th Earl of Wisling, owner of three steel foundries; Sir Robert Cartwright, a slightly built baronet, who rarely spoke in the meetings, but who had the trust and companionship of two very important royals; and Dr. Alexander Collins of the Castor Institute, site of numerous experiments in hybridisation.
“Is Prince Raziel coming?” Collins asked Trent.
“We’ll discuss that in a moment,” the baronet replied, mysteriously. “And our estate agent will not attend at all. He now sells properties in much hotter climes.”
Di Specchio laughed. “Then, he is dead, I take it. Good! We should drink to his eternal death!”
As the members each took his or her chair, a servant filled cups with a red liquid that bore a striking similarity to Sangiovese wine.
“Lewis was a bumbling fool. May he roast on Lucifer’s spit!” Wisling told his companions. “Perhaps, we should look to his magnificent building as our new headquarters. These old warehouses provide secrecy, but they are damp and dusty. What do you think, Serena?”
“I think Redwing belongs in the heart of the city, and what better street than Wormwood?” she answered, sipping the dark liquid.
“How apt, my dear!” Clive agreed, as he took the last chair. “I’m pleased to see our round table full this evening. I’d feared that our illustrious, new Lord Mayor might entice many of you into his political web for the night, but here, at this table, is where true power lies. England’s government agents are mere window dressing. Is that not so? Mundane fools with no eyes to see the hidden hand, lurking behind them in the dark, pulling the strings and making the monarchs dance.”
“The shadowy Professors animating a hellish Punch and Judy show!” Wisling jibed.
Trent stood. “Well said, Lord Wisling. Are all our cups filled? We shall toast, and then to business.”
“It’s true, then. You have found it? The obsidian mirror?” Collins enquired.
“It is why we assemble this evening, Doctor. We completed the excavation a few months ago, and tonight we perform the rite,” Sir William replied. “To the annihilation of the inner circle and the enthronement of our infernal king!”
“To the King amongst the Dead!” they all shouted in unison as each tipped back the goblet and drank.
Trent set down his empty cup and reached into his left coat pocket, withdrawing a small round object that resembled a black rock. “Here is the key, purchased with pain. There stands the glass, which will open again,” he quoted. “Sir Robert, would you do the honours?”
“One moment,” Serena objected. “Perhaps, we should wait for Lord Raziel. These are his incantations, after all. If we err, our lives may be at risk.”
“Are you afraid, mon ami?” Sir Clive asked.
“Of course, not. I merely wish to avoid... Disappointment.”
Trent gazed intently at the countess, as if taking her measure. “Only those with reason to fear will be disappointed, Serena. Let us unveil the glass!”
Sir Robert left his chair and walked to a tall rectangular shape, concealed beneath black velvet draping. The mysterious device dominated the northeast corner of the basement area, where the round table now met. “Yes or no?” he asked the others. “The incantation must be spoken at midnight precisely. If not tonight, we must wait until the next, correct lunar phase.”
“Yes! Uncover it,” several of the members shouted in unison. “Let us see it!”
Di Specchio finished her drink and joined Sir Robert at the mirror’s side to demonstrate her fidelity with their cause. “Allow me. After all, mirrors are my business. However, we must give credit to our builder, Sir Clive Urquhart, without whom we would never have located this revered glass.”
Sir Clive stood and bowed, swiping at his waxed moustaches with one hand. “It is but a small contribution.”
The contessa pulled at the velvet covering, and every member gasped. Beneath the drape stood a perfect sheet of obsidian—black volcanic glass. Its gleaming surface had been polished and etched with a thousand sigils, containing a spell used to imprison the Watcher bound within.
“That which is bound, let it be loosed. That which is hidden, let it be found. That which is silent, let it roar!” Trent cried ou
t, as he held the black rock aloft.
The round table commenced a hideous chant, and the orb began to glow; with each spoken word, a sigil on the obsidian surface brightened, then disappeared as if wiped clean. When all the etched figures had faded, the orb grew dark, and every torch and lamp in the room snuffed out at once.
A low hum slowly reached their ears, its unearthly sound composed of a thousand dissonant pitches, as if an entire chorus of demons sang in black and hideous speech. The ears of all within the circle began to bleed. A massive wind rushed into the hall, and the obsidian surface shattered into a million shards of glass; each piece flying in a whirlwind throughout the room, narrowly missing the humans surrounding the table.
A great Shadow appeared within the glittering whirlwind, and the entire building began to shake. Something very powerful was coming through.
Chapter Twelve
3:03 am – Branham Hall
Bella the Labrador had begun to pant, her large black paw pushing against Sinclair’s right side. Turning in the bed, the marquess opened his eyes.
“Forgive me for interrupting your sleep, my lord,” a man’s voice whispered in the darkness. “It’s just that we’ve a situation, you might say. Outside, on the grounds. Shall I fetch your clothing, sir?”
Sitting up, the policeman wiped sleep from his dark lashes. “Baxter, what do you mean by a situation?”
The butler switched on a small electric lamp and started collecting the detective’s trousers, socks, waistcoat, and shirt. He laid each, in orderly fashion, upon the foot of the wide bed whilst replying. “Let us just say, sir, that Clark and Powers have ordered their men to carry shotguns as they search the buildings. I’m afraid that one of my lady’s horses is dead.”
This news jolted Sinclair into wakefulness. “Which one?” he asked as he reached for the trousers.
“Ambrose Aurelius, my lord. A four-year-old Andalusian worth nearly five thousand pounds. Or at least, he was.”
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