by KJ Charles
The old threadbare tapestries and weapons had gone, replaced by oil paintings of horses, most of them Stubbs. The rugs were new; the furniture looked like Pugin’s work, finely wrought pieces rendered trivial by the echoing stone hall that demanded great hulking furniture. There had used to be a huge Jacobean carved dresser, and a suit of armour at the foot of the great stair.
“Oh,” he said. “It’s been redecorated.”
“Yes, Lord Alexander,” the butler informed him with a nicely judged inclination of the head. “All the main apartments have been entirely refurbished in the last five years under Her Grace’s direction. John will conduct you to your room.”
Alec wandered upstairs, following the footman like any guest, since his father was not available to be greeted. The busts and their pedestals had gone too, replaced by glass jars of stuffed birds and animals. As with the furniture downstairs they were excellent pieces, the creatures bright and clean and posed with striking beauty, but not quite right where they stood in the stone halls.
“She’s changed everything.” Alec felt numb. It was a peculiar thing to come home and discover so little of it left. He had not thought of Castle Speight with fondness in his years of exile, but he hadn’t wanted it all to be changed.
“It’s delightfully modern,” Jerry said with the faintest note of warning in his voice, and Alec pulled himself together and let the waiting footman show them to their rooms.
They were both in the Upper Corridor West, in adjoining guest bedrooms. The rooms he and his siblings had had as children were probably in holland covers. His bags had already been unpacked and his evening dress laid out, reminding him, rather jarringly, that Templeton Lane was acting as his valet as well.
There was hot water in the jug; it was past six. Alec washed off the smuts of the railway, plus a remaining trace of dried spunk on his cheek, with some relief. He got dressed in his new finery, and had just satisfied himself that he looked respectable when a knock came at the door.
“Come in,” he called.
It was Jerry, looking extraordinarily good in evening dress. He shut the door behind him. “All right?”
“Yes. Fine. No, not really. I don’t know why I thought it would be the same. It’s not my house; they can do as they please. But...”
“Why does it bother you?”
Alec wasn’t sure how to answer. “I don’t know. It’s been a certain way for a hundred and fifty years, but you might well think a fresh look was overdue. The history of the family...” He tailed off.
“What?”
“Mother,” Alec said. “That’s what’s gone. She’s gone, and now the place she lived, where I knew her, is gone. He took down the paintings of her long ago when the new Duchess came. There’s nothing left.”
He couldn’t say anything else. Jerry hesitated for a second, then came over. He put a cautious hand on Alec’s shoulder, the barest touch of comfort, and then he gave a very quiet sound of exasperation and pulled him into a one-armed hug. Alec held on, breathing deeply, face in Jerry’s shoulder.
He lifted his head after a moment, feeling rather self-conscious. Jerry was looking at him with a little frown.
“Thanks,” he said. “Sorry. It’s all rather much.”
“I know.” Jerry’s arm tightened slightly. “What’s the programme now?”
“We should go down for drinks soon.” He’d imagined on the train how they might spend the pre-dinner interval, and he wondered if Jerry wanted that. He didn’t in the slightest any more. What he wanted was to be held like this, Jerry’s arm strong and comforting around him, a tiny refuge from the bruising world outside.
“Whenever you’re ready. No hurry.” Jerry brushed a kiss over his cheekbones. “Ah, you poor bastard. This is not right.”
Alec tried for a snort. “Are you really offering sympathy because my father the Duke bought new furniture for his castle?”
“When you put it that way, no.” Jerry didn’t let go, all the same, and they stood together for a moment more until the clock chimed the half hour, and Alec disengaged himself with reluctance.
“We should go.”
Jerry contemplated him, frowned, and smoothed one of his eyebrows with a careful finger. “Tsk. Better.”
“I bet you comb yours.”
“And wax them. Come on, Lord Alexander, we’ve flats to kite.”
“We’ve what?”
Jerry grinned. “We’ve local dignitaries to meet, is what I said. Let’s go.”
“Jerry?” Alec caught his hand. “Thank you. You aren’t obliged to nursemaid me.”
“That is not what I’m doing.”
“You’ve been far kinder to me than most people ever are. And, whatever happens, I wanted to tell you now—”
“Don’t,” Jerry said, voice harsh.
“Don’t what?”
“Anything. I’m not a good man, Alec. If I have redeeming features, they are few and far between. You deserve a great deal better than—than you’ve had, but don’t put me on a pedestal because I’m not as shitty as some others. And while I’m giving orders, stop telling yourself you ought to be stronger or more manly or feel less, or whatever it is now.” His fingers tightened on Alec’s. “You don’t need to be different. It would be a crying shame if you were.”
Will you still be saying that in a week? Alec didn’t ask, didn’t press for more. He hadn’t meant to push Jerry into any sort of admission, even a guarded one; he wished he hadn’t, given that any self-betrayal would inevitably be resented later. The thought of what might have been if only they could have met another way, without any of the theft and lies and treachery, was almost unbearably painful.
He released Jerry’s hand. “Let’s go down.”
THE DRAWING ROOM HAD been completely refurbished too, this time in French Style, with swags of rich red velvet, ornate decorative scrolls wherever they could be fitted in, and gilt. The mirrors, picture frames, tables, and chairs all gleamed gold; the place looked like a throne room.
“What a magnificent setting,” Jerry murmured. “Fit for kings.”
The Duke and Duchess had not yet descended. The drawing room held two gentlemen in their sixties, one tall and gaunt, the other shorter and giving evidence of a lifetime of good dinners, and a third, slightly younger man with a sun-darkened complexion and a somewhat tense air. There were four women, two dressed with suitable elegance for the setting. The third, in an aggressively plain dark brown gown, had a marked resemblance to the Duchess, and Alec realised she must be the sister, Miss Hackett. The last was an unremarkable woman in her mid-thirties with hair of an intermediate shade between brown and blonde, drably clad in dove-grey with a modest collar. She looked like the Platonic ideal of a single lady’s companion, like boredom on two sensibly-shod feet.
“Good evening, ladies, gentlemen,” Alec said, deciding he had to take the bull by the horns. “I’m delighted to meet you all. I’m Alexander. His Grace’s second son,” he felt compelled to add, in case none of them had heard his name before. He wondered whether to address Miss Hackett as “Aunt” and decided that would be overdoing the bonhomie.
There was a round of introductions, which identified the tall thin man as the retired Chief Constable Sir Paul Maitland (wife in green), the fat one as the retired businessman Mr. Wykeham Forbes (wife in blue) and the tanned one as Mr. Pelham (no wife). Alec received two fingers and an icy look from the Duchess’s sister, and a small inclination of the head from the younger woman, introduced as her companion Miss Roy.
They chatted awkwardly for a little while. Mr. Forbes was excessively friendly, and took to calling Alec “Lord Alex”. His wife wore what looked like a habitual pleasant smile but said little. Sir Paul clearly had a lifetime’s experience of municipal socialising: he made polite conversation of the kind that kept going for hours without ever veering into the personal or interesting. Jerry was pleasant but not nearly as charming as Alec knew he could be, and apparently happy not to attract attention. Miss Hackett sniffed di
sapproval whenever she found an opportunity; Miss Roy remained silent, but Alec felt her eyes on his face more than once.
It was awful. The party was too small to be made up of people with nothing to say to one another, and was all too obviously an exercise in ticking necessary guests off a list. Things could have been rescued by a charming hostess, but the Duke and Duchess did not come downstairs until almost half past seven. They greeted their guests with suffocating condescension and the Duke gave Lady Maitland his arm into dinner, causing Miss Hackett’s nostrils to flare a little.
The meal was excellently cooked; the wines well chosen. The conversation dragged on. His Grace pronounced on various political issues of the day and received agreement as no more than his due. When he’d finished, the Duchess observed to the table in general, “You will note that the castle has been much improved in recent years,” and embarked on a lengthy monologue enumerating the renovations. Alec had wondered if Jerry would lead the conversation to topics such as the Duchess’s jewels and the security precautions for the grand dinner. He didn’t, and nobody else mentioned the dinner either, presumably because they were all aware they were not in the group selected for that honour.
After dinner the ladies retired. Jerry asked the Duke about his racehorses, starting a sporting conversation that lasted for what felt like hours, considering that the group was too small for the remaining men to start a conversation of their own. By the end of it, Sir Paul was rather flushed with port, which he had consumed at a startling rate; Mr. Forbes evidently felt snubbed and irritated; Jerry was basking in the Duke’s approval thanks to an impressive body of knowledge about racing; and Alec was glazed with boredom. If he’d actually sacrificed his self-respect and his siblings’ love in order to win a place at this table, he was pretty sure he’d have needed to drink the decanter dry to prevent himself breaking down in tears.
They joined the women for a little more uninteresting chat. At ten o’clock precisely, the Duchess announced she was retiring, very much as though she’d been waiting for the chimes, and bade her guests to stay up and enjoy themselves as long as they chose. The Duke accompanied her out, and Mrs. Forbes let out a long, shallow breath as their hosts departed. “Well. We’ve two fours; would anyone care for a hand of whist?”
“Oh, yes,” Lady Maitland said thankfully.
“I do not play cards,” Miss Hackett announced with a freezing look.
“Then we shall make up one four,” Mrs. Forbes returned, still with the pleasant smile. “Mr. Vane? Lord Alexander?”
Jerry glanced at the Maitlands and Mr. Forbes, none of whom looked willing to forego the chance of some entertainment. “I will deny myself the pleasure this time. A game of billiards, Alec?”
Alec accepted, and led the way to the billiards room. Jerry set the game up with swift movements. “One and then bed for me, I think.”
“Very wise. It was a long journey.”
Jerry hit the cue ball with some force, scattering balls. Alec took his shot and missed. Jerry made a winding gesture that clearly said, Hurry up, and potted the next four in a row. Alec didn’t bother trying after that, letting Jerry clear the table and replying at random to his idle chatter as he did so. He was rather more concerned with the icily murderous expression he read in Jerry’s dark eyes.
Jerry sent the last ball to its doom with a stab of the cue that came within a whisker of ripping the baize. “Bad luck, old fellow,” he announced. “Well, I’m for bed. What about a nightcap?”
Alec topped up their tumblers from the whisky decanter and followed him up the stairs. The whist game was still in full swing.
Jerry led the way to his own room, remarking, “Since we’re sharing Fanshaw, you might as well stay for that drink.” He rang the bell as soon as they entered.
Alec had wondered if his peculiar mood would be the precursor to something. To Jerry fulfilling his promise on the train, taking Alec over the billiard table or here, up against the door, whispering obscenities, making him writhe. He wanted that, painfully. He knew he wouldn’t get it.
He sipped whisky for Dutch courage until Templeton Lane arrived, a picture of the respectable upper servant. Lane murmured “Good evening, sir,” and shut the door.
“Anyone in the corridor?” Jerry asked.
“No.”
“Good.” Jerry knocked back a mouthful of whisky. “Gentlemen, I regret to announce that we’re fucked.”
CHAPTER NINE
Alec felt his stomach plunge. Lane said, calmly, “Why?”
“I suppose it depends how far back you go, for example to the point when I asked you to do one simple task, you anthropoid ape,” Jerry said. “Susan Lazarus is here.”
“The devil she is. She’s in Devon.”
“So you assured me. Which makes me question why she’s in the drawing room posing as the Duchess’s sister’s companion, Templeton.”
Lane took the glass from his hand and drained it. “Fuck.”
“Quite. Susan Lazarus, Alec, is the younger generation of a particularly tiresome and persistent detective agency. I am not pleased to see her.”
“She was meant to be in Devon,” Lane insisted. “I had someone approach the agency with a request for her services, asked the office junior, and paid the idiot housekeeper. They all said she would be in the wilds of... Shit.” He rubbed a hand over his mouth and chin. “She primed them to tell the same lie. Of course. That’s my girl.”
“She wanted to conceal her whereabouts. And she got here before we did. Now, how would that come about?”
“Easy enough if someone talked. It wasn’t me, and I doubt it was you.” The big man turned, blue eyes glacial. “Any comment, Lord Alexander?”
Alec recoiled. “What do you mean?”
“Stop it, Temp,” Jerry said. “All it would have taken is someone recognising me when I was squiring Alec about town. That was always a risk. Equally, it’s possible the Ilvars hired her as discreet security for the event, and this is pure rotten chance. Posing as a companion would fool other thieves, but it’s pointless if she’s after us. I’m pretty sure that chap Pelham isn’t a businessman, come to that; he dodged all Forbes’ efforts to make professional conversation.”
Lane scowled. “Did she recognise you?”
“I don’t know,” Jerry said. “I’ve never met her face to face but I’m sure she’s had a look at me at some point. She didn’t seem to know me, but—”
“Oh, that means nothing. She’s worse than her old man for unreadability, and I wouldn’t play cards with him if you paid me. Realistically, we’re going to have to clear out.”
“Or not,” Jerry said. “Or, yes, but. Look, if she knows we’re here, she’ll be expecting us to operate according to our usual practice: get the lie of the land, plan it out, find a foolproof exit. And if she hasn’t recognised me, she won’t have any reason to be twitchy about Mr. Gerald Vane up till the moment she sets eyes on my valet.”
“Therefore?”
“We do it right now,” Jerry said calmly. “The parure is in the safe in His Grace’s bedroom, yes? It’ll be at least an hour’s work to get into the thing—”
“I thought you said the safe’s lock was unpickable,” Alec said.
“No such thing. How does he sleep?”
“Soundly, according to the maid,” Lane said.
“And if he doesn’t, that’s what chloroform’s for. In, out, gone before morning, what do you think?”
“Dashing, but stupid. There’s a reason we don’t act without planning.”
“Exactly. We never do, and Lazarus knows it.”
“Are you literally saying, ‘let’s behave like lunatics, it’s the last thing she’ll expect’?” Lane demanded. “What about getting away?”
“If we move early enough we can be down at the station for the first train to Lancaster, well before any hue and cry. Look, the Bramah is famously impenetrable. Everyone knows you can’t pick them. Therefore, if Lazarus is expecting us to crack the safe, she’ll think it
will be by flim-flam or drilling, neither of which can be done overnight. I say we take the risk.”
Lane considered that, then a slow grin dawned. “You may have a point. Do it tonight and vanish. Why not?”
Jerry nodded. “The only problem is, it would leave Alec on his own to answer a lot of awkward questions. Alec, can you handle it if I disappear with Temp and the loot tomorrow?”
“I— Yes. Probably.”
Lane gave him a narrow look. “Something wrong? You look queasy.”
“I feel it,” Alec said. “Sorry. I’ll be back in a moment, but— I need to splash my face, I think.”
Lane’s hand came up, gripping his bicep as he tried to get past. “Wait a moment, friend. If there’s a problem, I want to know about it.”
“There isn’t a problem. I just— Nerves, that’s all. Let me go, will you?”
“I don’t want to see nerves,” Lane said. “Not in these circumstances.”
“Alec will be fine. Let him go.”
“Alec is a loose end, and I don’t like loose ends,” Lane said, almost mocking the name. “And we’re depending on him not to fold when all hell breaks loose. Which—”
“Will be fine,” Jerry repeated. “Don’t piss about.”
Alec tugged unavailingly at the grip on his arm. “I really do need to go.”
“Get off him, you gorilla,” Jerry said. “I’ll speak to you later, Alec. It is all under control. Trust me.”
It was a statement, with the faintest hint of a question, and Alec didn’t think he could breathe. He wanted to say, Always. I know you wouldn’t let me be hurt. I can trust you, just as you can trust me.
He couldn’t.
He managed a smile and a nod, and hurried out. The nearest water-closet was at the end of the hall, near the main stairs, and he set off in that direction.
He returned about ten minutes later, knowing that they’d be wondering what had taken him so long. He knocked at the door of Jerry’s room. Lane opened it a crack, face composed in a valet’s expression, and stepped back to let Alec in. Jerry stood behind Lane. He started to say something, and then his face changed along with his partner’s as Alec’s companion stepped into the room after him and kicked the door shut.