The Blood Is the Life

by Sharon K Gilbert

“What about a petite daughter with dark eyes and raven hair like her mother? Beth, there is no woman more beautiful, none more wonderful and kind. I’m glad to see the colour returning to your cheeks. You had me worried.”

  She sat up, taking as deep a breath as the corset permitted. “Being with you always brings me strength, Captain. I wonder what position Salisbury has in mind for you.”

  “Monro mentioned something to do with the cabinet.”

  “The cabinet? It must be an entirely new office. Did he offer any hints as to what it might entail?”

  “Not much, to be honest. I want to get the ICI operating first, though. Here’s Edmund with your tea.”

  The policeman entered with a footman, who carried a pot of tea and two cups. Beth took a few minutes to sip half a cup of the warm beverage. Charles helped to reposition her coronet, and the trio returned to the interior of the house, arriving at the dining hall just as Paul Stuart was leaving it.

  “I’d wondered where the two of you went,” he said, taking Beth’s hand. “Are you all right, Princess?”

  “Much better now. I’d grown overly warm; that’s all.”

  “The orchestra has set up in the ballroom. Are you up to dancing?” he asked, looking into her eyes with great concern. “Beth, you still seemed flushed to me. Why not let Charles take you home?”

  “It’s very bad form for a bride to leave her own wedding,” Elizabeth insisted. “It’s only a few hours more. I can endure that, surely. Besides, who’ll protect you from Delia Wychwright, if we leave? I saw her glancing in your direction during luncheon with a very intense look upon her face.”

  “I think she was looking at Uncle James, actually. Delia’s given up on me and set her eyes on a much higher title,” he jibed.

  “Did I see Señor Puccini earlier?” asked Charles.

  “You did,” Aubrey answered. “Victoria had three pianos delivered to provide a variety of music and musicians. I overheard Martin say that Puccini is playing at four o’clock in the Argyle Salon.”

  “Tory knows how much I love music,” Beth answered. “We’ll have to look in on all the salons and say hello.”

  The couple and Aubrey passed through long corridors, stopping several times to receive handshakes and fondest wishes from guests. Finally, after quarter of an hour, they entered the larger of two picture galleries, where the eyes of four centuries of Drummonds watched them pass.

  “Soon, your portrait will join those,” Aubrey told his cousin. “James couldn’t be happier, Charles. Not only that you’ve married Beth, but that you’ve agreed to be his heir.”

  “You’re sure you don’t mind?” asked Sinclair.

  “Not at all! It takes a great weight off my shoulders, to be honest. The Drummond properties are vast and require regular attention, which would have meant forsaking travel in favour of sitting behind a desk once a week. The very thought makes me shudder! Plus, James attends Parliament several times a year and sits on the privy council. It’s all rather dull, if you ask me.”

  “Desks have never appealed to me either, but I suspect we’ll have plenty to engage our minds here in London. Besides, it’s a moot point. Our uncle will outlive us all,” Sinclair laughed as they reached an enormous portrait of two young men in 15th century dress. “Who are these? More Drummond ancestors?”

  “You’ve never seen this?” asked the earl. “That’s the royal princes, Henry Charles and Henry Edward. The twin sons who started it all. Charles is the taller one, there on the left, and Edward, who was three minutes younger, stands on the right. The men surrounding the twins are the original inner circle. Just to Charles’s right is Lord Aubrey, and to Edward’s left is Lord Anjou. They shared leadership in that first fellowship. Twelve members in all. Many of their descendants sit on the circle today.”

  Beth took a seat in a plush chair opposite the painting, resting her aching feet whilst her cousins explored the gallery. The long, rectangular space was panelled in mahogany, and many of the portraits hung within specially designed mouldings, stained in a rich red hue. Behind her chair, a mullioned window overlooked a courtyard garden, and the duchess turned to watch a gaggle of youngsters, apparently searching for distraction from the somewhat staid and lackluster activities their parents enjoyed.

  The air temperatures had dropped precipitously since they’d left the chapel, and the iron grey clouds overhead threatened cold rain or snow within the hour.

  “I fear Mr. Reid is mistaken. It looks like snow could fall at any moment,” she sighed.

  Charles turned, worried at her continued questions regarding snow. “Edmund’s rarely wrong about these things. I suppose as an aeronaut, he’s learnt to read clouds. Don’t worry about it, darling.” He gazed once more at the painting. “Paul, is it my imagination, or do these two men look familiar?”

  “Which men?” he asked as Cordelia Wychwright entered the gallery on Albert Wendaway’s arm.

  “You said there were twelve men on the first circle, but I count fourteen standing with the twins. Those in the very back are nearly hidden by the curtains, but they—no, it can’t be!” he gasped. “Paul? Paul, are you listening?”

  The earl had left the painting and now stood near the archway, staring at Wychwright. “Cordelia, do you know this man?”

  The ingénue giggled. “Of course, I do! He’s Sir Albert. He’s quite nice, too. Bertie tells me that he’s Lord Haimsbury’s cousin, so he’s your family as well, I should think.”

  Aubrey took her hand. “Let me escort you to the ballroom, Delia.”

  She appeared puzzled and pulled away. “But Bertie asked for the first three dances, and I’ve promised.”

  “Promises can be broken,” the earl said firmly. “And dances should be shared only with those deemed trustworthy.”

  Wendaway laughed, removing a cigar from his pocket. “Meaning that I am not?”

  Charles started to intervene, but Elizabeth appeared at Cordelia’s side and reached for the girl’s hand. “Come help me with my coronet, Delia. It’s starting to slip. There’s a little powder room just up here.”

  The duchess left, her arm through Wychwright’s, leaving Wendaway to face both Sinclair and Stuart—alone.

  “Allow me, Paul,” the marquess told his cousin. “See that Beth and Cordelia arrive safely at the ballroom, will you? I’ll catch you up.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. Very sure. Now go.”

  Reluctantly, the earl left, following the ladies’ path through the archway to the rooms beyond the lower gallery.

  Charles snatched the baronet’s unlit cigar and crushed it beneath his boot. “I suggest you leave now, Albert. I’ve learnt to tolerate, perhaps even like Amelia’s parents, but that does not imply that I tolerate you. Cordelia Wychwright is a friend, and I will not have you insinuate yourself into her life.”

  “Or what?”

  Sinclair leaned in to whisper, careful to avoid prying ears beyond the doors. “Or I shall revisit the file I’ve kept on you since meeting you, old chum.”

  Foolishly, Albert merely grinned, as if he believed himself invulnerable. “Former Scotland Yard detectives have no power to arrest, Cousin. Or aren’t you aware of that?”

  “How do you know I’m leaving the Yard?”

  “Word travels. I have eyes all over the city, Charles. Important eyes. Men who keep watch.”

  A horrible thought shot into Sinclair’s mind, and its implications caused a hundred suspicions to crystallize into a single word.

  “Watchers,” he said, angrily denting the baronet’s red waistcoat with his forefinger. “Watchers! I should have known you’d be part of that hellish group! Should have guessed that a man like you would seek fellowship with a murderous mob like Redwing. Wendaway, if I so much as hear your name spoken in the same sentence as a crime, I’ll come after you. I may be leaving the Yard, but my influence an
d my reach increase.”

  “You refer to your little circle?” he dared ask. “Their influence wanes, old man.”

  “Get out. Leave now whilst your legs still function.”

  Wendaway removed a second cigar from his coat pocket and clipped the end. “Very well, I’ll leave, but don’t expect me to be gone for long, Cousin.” The insolent gambler offered a shallow, mocking bow and turned about, heading into the salons.

  “He isn’t worth it,” a soft voice said.

  Sinclair spun on his heel, finding a beautiful woman with auburn hair and green eyes. “Lorena?” he asked in shock. “How did you get in? What are you doing here?”

  “A barrage of questions. Ever the policeman,” MacKey said, taking his arm and pulling Sinclair to a quiet spot near the window. “If you don’t mind, I prefer to remain in the shadows.”

  “Yes, I’d imagine you would. Shadows fit well with your agenda, I should think. Paul told me that you’d dyed your hair blonde. Why change it back, if you’re trying to hide?”

  “Hiding won’t help me. Not now. Charles, I know that you and the earl think me wicked, but there are aspects to my actions I cannot reveal yet. I only came to warn you.”

  “Warn me about what?”

  She reached for his left hand, touching the shining, gold wedding band. “Elizabeth is so lucky,” she whispered to herself. Then, glancing up, her words came quickly, urgently. “She’s in danger, Charles. I cannot stop what’s about to happen. Those behind it are far too powerful, and I’m but a little cog in their machine. Just remember that I tried to stop it. If the prince is right, then she’ll be safe; if not, then we’re all lost.”

  “What do you mean?” he insisted. “Lorena, if you’re trying to make amends, then do it. Tell me what is about to happen!”

  Tears filled her green eyes, and he could see great anguish upon her face. “Don’t leave her side. Not even for a minute. That’s all I can say. Goodbye, Charles. I hope one day, you can forgive me.”

  She reached up and kissed his cheek, and before he could react, she’d rushed out the side door and into the courtyard. MacKey passed by the gaggle of playing children, dashed around the statue of Duke Henry Charles, and re-entered the house on the far side of the garden.

  Shocked, the newlywed marquess rubbed his cheek as he walked through the gallery towards the ballroom stairs, pausing again at the portrait, his gaze falling once more on the two, mysterious figures. The brushstrokes that formed the men’s faces seemed strong and purposeful, and the figures’ positions, behind and slightly above the main grouping, made it appear as if the two secretly watched the twins.

  All colour drained from Sinclair’s face as frank realisation replaced idle curiosity. The long dark hair and muscularly tall form of the one was unmistakable. It was Anatole Romanov, wearing a crown and dressed in a crimson, 15th century Russian tunic and a black robe trimmed in sable. Romanov, whose name had most likely differed at the time of painting, stood several inches taller than the second observer, who wore a cap crown that obscured his hair colour. Might this second man be Grigor? Perhaps, not, if Warren’s theory were correct, regarding the release of a Watcher in 1871.

  Do three of these devils now roam loose in London? He thought of Susanna Morgan’s claim that Redwing had freed a Watcher from within a long-buried obsidian mirror. Suddenly, Charles Sinclair actually wanted to speak to Anatole Romanov. And soon, he’d have the chance.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “Mrs. Sinclair, may I have this dance?” Charles asked as the orchestra began the first waltz.

  As music for her first public dance as a married woman, Elizabeth had chosen Chopin’s Valse, Opus 64, No. 2. Long one of the duchess’s favourite pieces, the lead instrument of this special, orchestral arrangement featured the gifted hands of famed pianist Arabella Goddard, who’d come out of retirement as a favour to the duke.

  Everyone applauded as Charles led his bride onto the expansive, marble-tiled ballroom floor. Chopin’s lilting music allowed him to gently lead her through the steps and twirls with ease, and during the piu mosso, the fluid eighth note passage propelled their feet into a cascade of turnings that showcased Elizabeth’s effortless ability to dance, but also permitted Sinclair to draw his bride ever closer to him.

  “You make my heart race,” he told her as the music took them ‘round the floor. “Yet, every eye is upon us, my darling, making this dance quite public. Shall we dance more privately later?”

  She blushed and squeezed his hands. “I look forward to it, husband. I hope I do not disappoint. I’ve led a rather sheltered life, despite my...condition.”

  “A condition which pleases me more than you could ever imagine, Beth. You and I are made for each other. I believe that with all my heart. I’ve been in love with you ever since ’84, when I saw you at Paul’s house. I never saw the letter you wrote before going to Paris. If I had, I’d have come to you immediately, no matter what the law might have said. I loved you then, just as I love you now.”

  “I realised that when you visited Queen Anne in October, Charles. Your eyes spoke everything my heart had longed to hear you say.”

  Slowly, other couples began to populate the dance floor, and Charles kept watch on Prince Anatole, who danced with a Russian woman a few yards away. “Does the prince distress you, Beth?”

  Elizabeth had been looking towards the tall Russian royal, and she turned back to gaze at Charles. “Sometimes, though I cannot say why. He reminds me of someone, I think.”

  “Alexei Grigor?” Her hands tensed, and he instantly wished he’d said nothing. “Forgive me, Beth. This is our wedding day, and I’ve caused you to worry. Let’s speak of brighter things. Oh, the music has stopped.”

  She said little as he led her back towards the chairs. “I think we’ll sit this next one out, dear wife. You look pale again, and it’s probably my fault.”

  “I say, Duchess!” a man’s voice called in an obnoxiously loud voice.

  Elizabeth offered a cool but polite response. “Hello, Sir Albert.” Taking the perfunctory greeting as an open invitation, Wendaway boldly sat down beside her.

  “Smashing party. Did I see old ‘collars and cuffs’ talking with you at the reception line?”

  “Collars and cuffs?” she asked. “I’m afraid I don’t know who you mean.”

  “Eddy, of course. The prince. Just a nickname amongst his nearest and dearest. He’s a bit of a dandy, if you ask me. Charles, I’ve been speaking to Kip Mycroft-Jones. He’s a clerk in the House of Lords, you know, and he mentioned that Salisbury’s creating a special advisor position for you on his cabinet. Well, well! Your influence is indeed rising.”

  Sinclair put his arm around Elizabeth protectively, casting a warning glance at the baronet. “I thought you intended to leave, Albert. Pressing business elsewhere, you said.”

  “No, not at the moment.” Wendaway started to light a cigarette. “Oh, forgive me,” he said to the duchess. “Do you mind?”

  Charles answered for her. “Yes, she does. The duke has a drawing room for that, Wendaway. My wife is sensitive to smoke.”

  “Oh, righto,” he said, winking. “Delicate condition and all that.”

  “What did you say?” Sinclair shot back angrily.

  “I mean Cousin Elizabeth’s lungs, of course. I’m sure she’s unaccustomed to a gentleman’s habits. Charles, didn’t you used to smoke?”

  “No. You’re remembering Katherine’s husband.”

  “Oh, right. Joshua Calendar. Kate’s my cousin, you know, Duchess. Charles’s first wife’s sister. Such a shame about Amelia. Awful way to go.”

  Charles jumped to his feet, ready to bite the man’s head off, but Elizabeth spoke, cutting off her husband’s words before they even formed. “Yes, it was a dreadful business. I met her many times before she left for Ireland. Your cousin was a kind woman. She often mentioned you, Si
r Albert.”

  Wendaway looked at her strangely. “Yes, that’s right. I’d quite forgotten all that. You met Amelia when you met Charles. What’s it been now, ten years? Tragic. Just tragic. Happened in Whitechapel of all places. I say, wasn’t your mother completely torn apart, in the manner of old Jack?”

  Beth’s face drained of all colour, and she gripped her husband’s hand tightly. Charles was ready to call the man out, but despite her distress, Beth spoke first.

  “Charles, would you fetch me a glass of water, please?”

  Sinclair stared at her in disbelief. “Beth, I should remain here.”

  “Darling, I’m parched and quite warm. I know it’s an imposition, but a glass of water would really help. Would you mind terribly?” she persisted sweetly.

  Reluctantly, the marquess left, glaring back at Wendaway. “Albert, I shan’t forget this,” he seethed before leaving.

  The baronet grinned as if he’d won a round of poker with an ace up his sleeve and a jack in his boot. “Poor old Charles. Ever the policeman. I imagine he’ll miss all that authority.”

  Beth turned towards the unwelcome guest, her voice low and serious. “My husband may have resigned from Scotland Yard, but his arm and reach have only lengthened. Do you really want to find out just how important Charles has become? Or do you imagine him somehow malleable and acquiescent because of your connexion to his first wife. If so, then you are as great a fool as you are a liar.”

  “Well, I, uh...” the baronet blustered, finding her frank language disquieting.

  Her voice softened to a mere whisper as Beth continued, her dark eyes points of jet black. “You labour under the mistaken impression that you have some sort of leverage with my family, Sir Albert, but I assure you, my husband will not permit anyone to harm or distress me. Nor will the Stuarts allow it. My grandfather wields a mighty stick in government, and when he speaks, all ears open. But lest you think you might find a way to reach or cajole me in their absence, understand this: I may be young, but I am one of the wealthiest women in Europe; making me as influential as any sovereign—perhaps more so. Her Majesty loves me like a granddaughter, and bankers cater to me with shouts of sycophantic euphoria. One snap of my delicate fingers, and you will find yourself stripped of that title you so proudly wear and berthed within a transport ship, bound for Australia before that day’s sun sets. Is that clear? If you value your title and your freedom, then I suggest you do not test me.”