“Now,” Simon said, “would you direct me to the Pall Mall Club? Or the Mayfair.”
Nick settled against the brick wall. “You’re unfit.”
Simon glowered. “Do you mind showing some good manners? Is the Cagliostro Club in this neighborhood?”
“It moves. I believe it’s in Greenwich for the winter.”
“Excellent. I’ll find it.” Simon staggered off to the north, not toward Greenwich at all.
Nick caught Simon by the arm and steered him in a homeward direction. The pair walked in silence for a while, with Simon leaning heavily on Nick.
“I’ve decided you’re right, Nick,” the scribe said suddenly. “I trust you.”
“Do you now?” Nick nodded silently as he shifted Simon’s weight to get a better grip on the drunk magician. Simon could barely manage a grin between his pounding head and his bone-weary exhaustion. With Nick supporting him, his feet slapped down one after another as they lurched along the sidewalk.
Simon started to chuckle. “Stay on the path now, my good man.”
Nick grunted, and the two men staggered toward home through the dark and cold, leaning on one another.
Chapter Eight
Kate Anstruther strode up the front steps of Hartley Hall bathed in stark, cold morning sunlight, her cheeks ruddy and her hair unkempt. Beside her padded the long, graceful form of an Irish wolfhound. Laying a hand on his massive head, she gave him leave to continue patrolling the grounds. The hound bounded away.
As soon as Kate entered the house a footman came forward to wrestle off her mud-caked black boots as she leaned against the doorframe. She also surrendered her heavy leather coat and padded off in stocking feet, taking the stack of newspapers from the butler. A maid trailed behind carrying clean shoes and a change of clothes. Kate took the shoes but waved off the clothes, feeling the maid was overstating the condition of her mud-specked breeches and heavy cotton blouse.
She entered the morning room, where a fire had been laid and breakfast prepared on the sideboard. She took a cup of coffee and flipped through the first newspaper until she found the story she sought: the report of Lord Oakham’s death at Viscount Gillingham’s party. Apparently, according to knowledgeable sources, poor Lord Oakham succumbed to a violent fit. The prime minister and wife were on hand to comfort his lordship in his last moments. Funeral arrangements were pending.
She opened a second paper that was known to be a bit less friendly to the regime and found a small item that the noted Tory, Lord Oakham, had perished at a party of Whigs attended by the Whiggish prime minister and his beloved wife. There was no attribution of cause of death, but there was a hint that his lordship might have died in a violent way, perhaps in a duel, perhaps linked to Lord Oakham’s radical politics.
Kate shook her head. So that was it. Neat and tidy. The other deaths hushed up. She paced before the window, staring out at the late-autumn gardens. She saw the two men she had just left continuing their circuit of the grounds. One of them was the head gamekeeper, and he carried a wide-bore shotgun. She had set a guard around the house to intercept Colonel Hibbert should he attempt to contact Imogen. Kate felt assured by her defenses, but now she needed to go on the offensive.
She had already spent a day lingering at home since that horrific night at Viscount Gillingham’s. After leaving the party in the wee hours of Saturday morning, she had recovered Imogen from a cousin’s home where they were staying the weekend and come straight from London, reaching Hartley Hall at dawn. Imogen had stomped angrily to her room, from which she had yet to emerge. Kate had collapsed into the fitful sleep of exhaustion, only to rise a few hours later and seek refuge with her alchemy. But every image of beakers and tubes of bubbling liquid was torn apart by visions of that horrible beast that had been Lord Oakham.
A werewolf. Hibbert. Imogen. What—if any—were the connections?
Did Hibbert know that Lord Oakham was a werewolf? Was he one himself? Before the party, everything seemed clear. Kate had had no doubt she could ward off a simpleton suitor. Now, however, new plans had to be made.
In frustration, she had made for the study, where her father had kept his notebooks and journals. Late into Sunday night, she poured through the many volumes devoted to his world travels, including his frequent observations on the strange and occult. She searched for information on lycanthropy, and she found some. Her father had encountered tales of were-beasts, and made a record of them. However, there was certainly no credible mention of lycanthropy in Britain.
Her father would have been in as good a position to know as any. He was Sir Roland Anstruther, a great explorer, and perhaps the most widely traveled man of his day. If a hierarchy of English manhood of the last century were created, Sir Roland would rest under a bare few—Nelson, Wellington, Cook. He was a deity of the Empire. Yet, to Kate, he was her father. She could hear his deep, wild laugh and feel his rough hand around hers. He had the warmest blue eyes. There was no bird’s warble he could not identify, nor animal track he couldn’t sort out. He had taught her French and German and sent her overseas to make use of them. He had made certain she could sit a horse like a lady and fight like no gentleman. He was a master mathematician and an engineer, and Kate always admired his analytical, practical nature.
She also valued his attachment to mysticism, and very few besides her knew how significant it was to him. As a child, it was a way to spend time with him when he was at home and as an adult it was sheer curiosity. Kate had devoted much of her time to a scholarly pursuit of magic and its history. She had pursued the discipline of alchemy, perhaps because it combined the reproducible specificity of science and the misty spirit of the occult.
Again her thoughts drifted to the mysterious Simon Archer, as they had many times over the last day. Handsome and confident, with the wry sensibility of a gentleman of means. Kate had sensed something strange in him, as if he wore a mask. Something dark that he either tried to hide or didn’t recognize himself. Plus, he clearly performed acts a normal man couldn’t. He lifted a mahogany billiard table that must have weighed hundreds of pounds. He wrestled with the monstrous werewolf as Kate would with her beloved hound, Aethelred.
And then there was his companion who, one moment, appeared to be a languid fop and the next, an unshaven street vendor. Very odd. To say nothing of the fact that the fellow produced fire from his bare hands.
Kate wondered what manner of men these two were, but now, as the sun was rising on a chilly Sunday, she needed to set plans in motion. She stood before the fire when she heard the door open.
“Hogarth,” Kate greeted warmly, “I was just going to send for you.”
He was a tall man, well over six feet, and his livery hid the fact that he was stunningly muscular. Kate had taken many a boxing lesson from him, secretly so as not to scandalize the other servants, and knew that he was as well-knit as any man she had seen in an undershirt, which, admittedly, was few. He was not handsome but striking in a grim fashion. He had dark and quiet eyes. She had never seen him discomfited.
“I will be going into London tomorrow.” Kate found an appetite now that she was finished waiting and had a plan of action. She reached for a plate, shooed Hogarth away from serving her, and began to pile on eggs and sausage.
“Yes, Miss Kate. Shall I accompany you?”
“I would like you along.” She sat and began to eat voraciously. “It’s time to deal with Colonel Hibbert. I want to find out more about him. What few inquiries I made since he latched onto Imogen a few weeks ago left me unsatisfied. I intend to run him to ground.”
“But you say he is associated with Lord Oakham, who is a lycanthrope,” Hogarth reminded her matter-of-factly. “Was a lycanthrope. He must be dealt with outside normal channels. Your father asked me to take care of you and your sister. Leave it to me.”
Kate stared into his dark eyes. He betrayed no more emotion than if he had offered to pour her another cup of coffee, which he did. “I don’t intend to murder the man.”
She laughed as she cut a sausage. “No, Hogarth. At least not until I know exactly what we are dealing with. I will do everything I can, legally, to expose and ruin this wretch, if he is indeed just a mere wretch. If I can drive him from the country, I’ll do that. But I have no idea of his connection to Lord Oakham. It could have been mere coincidence. That is the kind of thing I need to find out before I take any action.”
Hogarth posed by the window with his hands behind his back. “I see.”
There was a knock at the door and Mrs. Tolbert, the white-haired housekeeper, came in. She seemed quite distraught. Kate straightened, expecting the news that Hibbert had appeared on the estate.
“Miss Kate.” The housekeeper recovered a bit of her posture. “I’ve just been told some alarming news by Miss Imogen’s maid.”
“What is it, Mrs. Tolbert?” Kate struggled to keep her voice steady.
“Miss Imogen is gone.”
“Gone? Gone where?” Kate rose from the chair.
“I don’t know, miss. One of her travel bags is gone, and some of her clothes are missing.”
Kate felt Hogarth moving to her shoulder as she slammed her hand onto the teak table. “Damn it!”
Mrs. Tolbert said, “One of Miss Imogen’s horses is absent from the stables. The maid is blameless, I’m sure, miss.”
Kate waved her hand. “I don’t care who helped her at the moment. Thank you, Mrs. Tolbert. Have a change of clothes laid out for me.” The housekeeper withdrew and Kate turned to Hogarth, taking some solace in his steady visage. “Hogarth, we’re going to London now. I’m sure she’s gone to Colonel Hibbert. Have the post chaise ready.”
“Yes, miss. However, given that the matter of the werewolf is still a concern, I suggest we acquire additional help. You mentioned two gentlemen from the party. Perhaps they might be able to assist you in this matter.”
Kate shook her head doubtfully. “I have no knowledge of these two. One was using some sort of disguise to appear as Sir Thomas Wolfolk. The other man was Simon Archer.”
That took Hogarth by surprise. “Simon Archer?” He repeated the name as if it held some recognition.
Kate regarded her manservant. “You know him?”
“I know of him,” he clarified. “He is a gentleman of a particular sort.”
Kate couldn’t tell whether Hogarth referred to the man’s social standing or something else. She shook her head. “This is a family matter.”
“Miss, you know that Colonel Hibbert is a man of dark purpose, and he may have dark resources. I suggest you consult with Mr. Archer on the matter.”
Kate couldn’t deny she had thought of the same thing though perhaps for another, more personal, curiosity. Simon Archer had wielded considerable power, as had his friend. These appeared to be the first true magicians she had come across, other than in journals or letters penned by her father. If Archer was a trustworthy figure, it would be useful to have him on her side. She noted the quiet assuredness on Hogarth’s face. “Very well. It’s worth the effort to contact him.”
“Yes, miss. An excellent idea.”
Kate’s lips held a peculiar smile as she went for the door.
Chapter Nine
A well-dressed woman should not have been walking unescorted on the edge of the Devil’s Acre in Westminster so late at night unless she had business. This woman did, but not the usual kind. She appeared gigantic, easily over six feet tall, with flowing blond hair. Her face was set with eyes like glaciers. She wore a cloak that rippled around her and hid her true shape, allowing imaginations to provide her with any manner of body. It did nothing to diminish her imposing stature, and her stride made her seem even grander; it was long and measured like a soldier’s. She was a Valkyrie come to life, a handsome woman, no doubt, but her size and power outshone her striking features.
She paused at a crowded corner to get her bearings. All these hovels looked alike to her. A group of ragged men huddled around a nearby fire. They stared at the statuesque woman in amazement.
“Lost, my dear?” one of them asked, eliciting some laughter from his friends.
Without looking, the woman asked, “I am looking for the Boulware Club.”
The man strolled to her side with a gap-toothed smile, emboldened by the gibes of his companions. “It’s just around the corner there. On your way to meet someone there?”
She started off, but the man scrambled in front of her. “Here now. What’s the rush?” The top of his oily head came to her chin as he backed up to keep pace. “My my, you’re quite a tall one.”
A few of his lads moved away from the fire, closing behind her. The woman’s eyes shifted slightly, but she kept walking. The lead man reached out and touched her arm.
“Here now, why so rude? I’m just offering you a bit of business before you get to the Boulware.”
Her cloak fluttered. There was an audible sound of bones cracking. The man screamed and staggered away from her, his arm bent at an unnatural angle.
One of the men trailing her darted forward and the woman spun to face him. He realized none of his friends had come along and stopped. The woman’s hand darted out like a viper. Strong fingers collected his threadbare coat at the collar. She lifted the man off the ground and swung him against a lamppost. The man’s breath whooshed out so he couldn’t scream.
The woman slammed him against the iron post a second time. He struggled in her grip. The man’s head clanged against the lamp twice, then again. His fellows backed away, gaping with disbelief as the woman battered their friend bloody. Finally she lifted him with one hand over her head and threw him to the pavement. He grunted and rolled into a ball, a pool of blood spreading from his head. She whirled back to her original course, unmindful now of the amazed crowd who watched her from the street and from many windows. None tried to stop her.
Around the corner, as promised, was the Boulware Club. It was a sagging old Restoration edifice that perhaps had been grand in its day but was quickly succumbing to the blight of the area. She stepped onto the crumbling porch and pushed open the front door.
There was no doorman outside to question her. There was no butler inside to meet her. There was only a grimy foyer and a staircase up to the next floor. She noted a sitting room off the entryway where several sets of eyes turned lazily toward her, then opened wide at the sight. She made for the door of the sitting room, sparking even wider eyes.
She surveyed the parlor with its flickering lamps, drooping wallpaper, badly used furniture, and men just as badly used. They were typically old men in worn clothes that were a decade out of date. It might have been the Regency to this roomful of society detritus.
She announced, “I want Colonel Boylan Hibbert.”
The men lowered their newspapers and worked pipes in their wet mouths. The woman tired quickly of their confused stares so she regarded the man nearest her. He sat in a patched armchair next to the fireplace. He was dressed for dinner but wore slippers with the big toes worn through. His white hair was thinning and he clearly had neglected to shave for several days.
She asked him, “Do you know Colonel Hibbert? Where are his rooms?”
The old man twisted his head in thought or senility. He removed his pipe. “He resides in seven-B, which is up the stairs and third door along on the right. However,” he added when the woman started away, “he has a guest at the moment, I believe. I would be happy to go up and tell him you are calling.”
The woman glanced over her shoulder at the man with a disdainful smirk. When she turned back to the stairs, she heard him mutter, “Irregular. We must tighten the membership regulations.”
The woman climbed the creaking stairs. Voices rose in argument or passion. She heard laughter and crying. Tobacco smoke mixed with coal gas, and even a hint of opium. That last sweet smell grew stronger as she reached the door and pounded the wood with her fist.
The door swung back to reveal Colonel Hibbert in a tattered smoking jacket, a colorful dhoti, or
Indian cloth, wrapped around his waist, and bare feet. A long-stemmed pipe was clenched in his teeth. His eyes were red-rimmed and half-closed.
The Valkyrie pushed past him into the room, followed by Hibbert’s drugged leer. The room was overwhelmingly grey, the floors, the walls, and the linens. One feeble lamp cast vibrating shadows. Hibbert closed the door slowly and leaned against it. He gave a smile that once might have been charming.
“Gretta.” Hibbert bowed clumsily. “Welcome to my home. I’ve just put on the kettle. Would you care for refreshments?”
She glanced around the wretched place and sniffed. “You’ve fallen far, Hibbert.”
The man snorted with amusement. “I find the finer clubs no longer welcome more worldly men. Anatomize a few worthless doxies in Calcutta and suddenly a gentleman is no longer in fashion.”
Gretta grunted with lack of interest in his personal plight. “Is she here?”
“She came when I whistled.” The colonel pointed to another door with the stem of his pipe and grinned lasciviously. “She is abed.”
“And have you done as instructed?”
“She has been given a dose of the elixir. And I believe I am owed something. Though I would have gladly done this service for free.” The man’s expectation flared through the opium haze
Gretta produced a blue bottle from inside her cloak and tossed it to Hibbert.
He stared at the glass vial with a mixture of relief and desire. “I can assure you, Gretta, the lovely Miss Anstruther will do anything I ask, and she has.” Hibbert glanced at the tall blonde in false modesty. “Oh, I’m sorry, my sweet, for my impolite masculine bluntness.” Then he chuckled. “Although, why should I fear? We are both men of the world, eh, Herr Aldfather?” He grinned at his jest, particularly given the annoyed glare she gave him. He collapsed into a chair, nestling his bottle. “Opium. You never turn your back on a gentleman.”
The Shadow Revolution Page 7