by Liz Carlyle
At Geoff’s right sat Lieutenant Lord Curran Alexander, who looked as if he had not slept. Lord Manders had gone to the sideboard as if to replenish his breakfast plate, then left it there, forgotten.
Even Mr. Sutherland had abandoned his coffee cup, now turning cold upon the table.
So much consternation, thought Geoff, over one small female.
And Rance, of course—the cause of all this discord—had not yet seen fit to present himself, being the sort of gentleman who was rarely spotted before noon unless there was a garrison to storm or the grouse were in season.
Sutherland cleared his throat a little sharply, and motioned Ruthveyn from the window. “I think we needn’t wait any longer, Adrian,” he said. “As Preost, I’m here to arbitrate, but not to decide. That must fall to all of you, the Founders.”
Alexander had lifted his gaze to Mr. Sutherland’s. “Surely, sir, there can be no question of admitting this woman?”
“Wrong question, old friend.” Ruthveyn’s mouth twisted sourly as he sat back down. “The question is whether we horsewhip Rance for that trick last night, or merely toss him out on his arse.”
“Gentlemen, let us not be hasty.” Sutherland drew off his silver spectacles and laid them pensively aside. He was a tall man of military bearing, who had been chosen as Preost because of his wisdom and his temperament. “Membership in the Fraternitas is for life. We all know that. As to this so-called St. James Society, there really is no procedure in your bylaws for dismissing a Founder. And it would be overhasty.”
“But last night was beyond the pale, Sutherland,” said Lord Manders, shoving his coffee aside. “To bring a woman into our midst? Think what she has seen. Imagine the tales she might spread. As Lazonby’s countryman—as a loyal Scot—I am angry.”
“The Scots have no special sway within the Fraternitas, my lord,” said Sutherland a little wearily. “The Gift runs strong in that nation’s blood, aye—more so than others, I’ll grant you. But we do not think any more—or any less—of a man for his race.”
“Besides, there is a woman in our midst every day,” Geoff heard himself saying. “You forget Safiyah Belkadi lives under our roof.”
“Miss Belkadi deals only with the staff,” said Manders. “No one ever sees her. She rarely speaks, certainly not to men. And she knows nothing, really, of what goes on here.”
Geoff was willing to wager that Belkadi’s sister knew more of what went on in the St. James Society than did half the members, but he wisely withheld that view.
“All that aside, she is Belkadi’s sister, and she is to be trusted,” Alexander continued. “But this de Rohan woman—I daresay she was just one of Rance’s damned pranks.”
“I wish, gentlemen, it were that simple.”
Geoff turned around to see the Preost pinching at the bridge of his nose.
“What do you mean, Sutherland?” Ruthveyn demanded.
The Preost exhaled wearily. “I have been up all night, reading the records Rance gave me,” he said. “They really are quite . . . extraordinary.”
“Extraordinary?” Geoff echoed. “In what way?”
Sutherland nodded in his direction. “I’ll get to that,” he said. “But first let me add that I also found within the file a letter to me, written before Giovanni Vittorio’s death. Rance did not pass it on, I suppose, because it would have ruined his little prank—or surprise, perhaps, is a fairer term. And it is possible Rance overlooked it, or imagined it was just a dying letter to an old friend.”
Alexander, however, had gone dark as a thunderhead. “With all respect, sir, why do I suspect that you’re about to make some sort of excuse for Lazonby’s behavior last night?”
“Or tell us something we won’t care to hear,” Ruthveyn grumbled.
Geoff, too, could sense a shift in the wind—had begun to feel it, even last night, in Belkadi’s suite. Miss de Rohan had been entirely too dispassionate about the entire business. Not defeated, but more . . . resigned. Oh, she’d lost her temper once or twice, but on the whole, it was as if she’d expected a battle royal, and this was but her opening salvo.
“What did Vittorio’s letter say?” Geoff’s voice sounded far calmer than he felt.
“That the girl was the great-granddaughter of his elder cousin, a seer by the name of Sofia Castelli,” said the Preost. “The family has had roots deep in the Fraternitas for longer than written records have been kept.”
“She possessed the Gift?” said Ruthveyn.
Sutherland nodded. “To a moderate degree,” he said. “But her medium was a rather unusual one—i tarocchi.”
“Tarot cards!” said Lord Manders. “What a pack of Gypsy nonsense.”
But Ruthveyn shook his head. “The Gift is often manifested in unusual ways,” he said irritably. “Often ways which are tied to one’s culture. In India, my sister was schooled in the wisdom of Jyotish—astrology, you might call it—and palmistry, too. But if you asked her if she was a mystic, like our mother, she would laugh at you.”
“Lady Anisha thinks it’s a skill, not a gift,” Bessett interjected. “And to some extent, perhaps it is.”
“To some extent,” Ruthveyn agreed, “perhaps.”
“And like her brother,” Geoff added, “she refuses let our Savant, Dr. von Althausen, study it in his laboratory.”
“Let it go, Bessett,” Ruthveyn warned.
Geoff smiled. “Very well, so this cousin of Vittorio’s, she was a card reader.” He turned back to the Preost. “But as I mentioned earlier, Miss de Rohan admitted to me who her father is. How did the family end up here?”
“The Castellis were engaged in the wine trade all over Europe,” said Sutherland, pensively stroking his salt-and-pepper beard. “Sofia’s daughter married a Frenchman with vast vineyards in Alsace and Catalonia, but he died in the aftermath of the Revolution. Old Mrs. Castelli moved the family’s wholesale business to London to escape Napoleon. She was tough as nails, and ruled her family with an iron fist.”
“Castelli’s,” muttered Alexander. “Aye, I’ve seen their vans sitting out front of Berry Brothers. And they’ve warehouses in the East End.”
Sutherland nodded. “Mrs. Castelli’s grandson hated the family business and went into police work, which the old woman thought beneath him—and quite correctly, I would add. It was the cause of considerable strife within the family. But in later life, he married well, to a widow from Gloucestershire. The Earl of Treyhern’s sister.”
For an instant, Geoff was certain he had misheard. He felt the blood drain from his face. Treyhern—or any member of his family—was about the last person he wished to anger. “Surely you jest?” he managed.
Sutherland looked at him strangely. “No,” he answered. “They have five children, the oldest being twins, Armand de Rohan and his sister, Anaïs. And there was an elder boy, a foster son.”
Lord Manders’s eyes had widened. “I know Armand de Rohan,” he uttered. “A very sporting fellow with pots of money. Good God. My uncle is thick as thieves with his father.”
“That would be de Vendenheim,” said Sutherland morosely. “We must tread carefully, gentlemen.”
“I should have said we needn’t tread at all,” said Ruthveyn irritably. “Really, we are done with this, aren’t we? Save for giving Rance a proper thrashing? Of course, there’s always a concern the girl might talk, but—”
“The girl won’t talk.” Sutherland ripped off his spectacles and tossed them down again. “Gentlemen, I don’t think you understand. Vittorio was perfectly serious in training this woman. He has tutored her extensively in the ancient texts of the Fraternitas, as well as natural philosophy, religion, even military tactics. She speaks six languages fluently—including Latin and Greek—and can apparently ride as well any man. Moreover, Vittorio says she is one of the best blades he ever trained.”
“Good Lord,” whispered Alexander. “One couldn’t get a better education at the École Militaire. But swordsmanship? That’s a bit of a dying art.”
“Dying, perhaps, but not dead,” Sutherland cautioned. “One never knows when such a skill might come in handy. In any case, Vittorio claims the girl was offered up by her family.”
“By her father?” Geoff barked. “Balderdash!”
“By Sofia Castelli,” said Sutherland. “Whether the father knows the full scope of what the girl has been up to—well, Vittorio was less clear on that point. But he was very clear in saying Sofia Castelli was determined—utterly determined—that this must be done. That it had fallen to this girl to take up the Guardian’s mantle. And if Vittorio can be believed, Signora Castelli was none too happy about it herself. But she was certain.”
“What are you saying, Sutherland?” Alexander demanded. “That we . . . we should take her? The Fraternitas does not admit women—not even as Preosts or Advocati or even as Savants. Certainly they cannot be Guardians.”
“I cannot counter all of your argument,” said Sutherland, “but in the ancient world, there were certainly Celtic priestesses—powerful ones. Beyond that, I fear we cannot know what was or wasn’t done.”
“Well,” said Alexander reluctantly, “you are right about the priestesses.”
“Moreover, I have spent the night looking through the ancient texts, and nowhere—nowhere—does it say women cannot belong to the Fraternitas,” Sutherland continued. “It does not address the issue of gender at all. I wonder I never noticed it before.”
“But that is ridiculous,” said Ruthveyn. “Women are completely unsuited for such work.”
“I don’t know.” Geoff spoke before he could stop himself. “I can see your sister Anisha being a Guardian—especially if one of her boys were threatened. At the very least, I should like to see the chap who’s man enough to cross her.”
Sutherland set his head at a stubborn angle. “The truth is, Adrian—and I have prayed on this all night—Miss de Rohan is ideally suited for the assignment which fell to us in Wapping this week.”
Ruthveyn froze. “What, that business of DuPont’s?”
“Just so,” said Sutherland. “And I wondered . . . well, I wondered if it wasn’t God’s hand.”
It suddenly struck Geoff what was being suggested. “No,” he said, jerking from his chair. “No, Sutherland, that will not do.”
Sutherland opened his hands, palms up. “But what if there is something here than none of us yet sees?” he suggested. “What if this child—Giselle Moreau—is truly in danger? What if something vital hinges upon her safety?”
“I do not perfectly understand, Sutherland.” Geoff had stridden across the room, to Ruthveyn’s former station at the window, and was staring blindly out at St. James’s Place. “What, exactly, are you advocating?”
“That we listen to Miss de Rohan,” said the Preost. “We all of us believe, gentlemen, in fate. What if everything leading us to this point—DuPont’s coming here, Mrs. Castelli’s adamance, Vittorio’s dogged training of this girl—what if it is all a part of some greater, unseen plan?”
“Sutherland, with all respect,” said Geoff, “you cannot be suggesting I take this girl to Brussels.”
“Are we not all of us just warriors for the working day?” Sutherland pressed. “Here to be called upon when needed? Here to safeguard the vulnerable? Some of you—all of you, really—possess the Gift yourselves in one form or degree. Perhaps Miss de Rohan is no different.”
Geoff set his jaw in a hard line. “And what of her reputation?”
“That is the young lady’s decision, isn’t it?” said Sutherland. “At some point, she chose to continue working with Signor Vittorio. She had to know where that would lead. Besides, she arrived from Tuscany but a few days ago. You’ll go to Ostend on a private yacht. If she is careful—and smart—no one who matters is apt to be aware of her comings and goings.”
Geoff scrubbed a hand along his freshly shaved jaw, still staring almost blindly out the window. Was Sutherland right about all this? And what was it about Anaïs de Rohan? He had lain awake much of last night pondering it—oddly obsessed by it, really.
To him, she was that most foreign of female creatures—brash, willful, and obviously possessed of an incisive mind. There was nothing demure about the woman—and very little modesty, he gathered. Yet he found her fascinating.
The truth was, he did not know many women intimately. He had kept the occasional mistress, of course, but sex was not intimacy. He knew that. But like Ruthveyn, Geoff was discriminating about whom he bedded. A man who carried the Gift strong in his blood took care where he planted his seed.
Geoff’s mother, whom he loved deeply, was about as traditional a woman as it was possible to be. Hearth, home, duty, and family were everything to her, and Lady Madeleine MacLachlan had been rigidly brought up to be the very definition of ladylike restraint—and on at least one occasion, she had paid a terrible price for it.
Perhaps it was not so bad for a woman to be bold. To go after what she wanted.
Had his mother broken free of society’s expectations and done precisely that, mightn’t his life have been different? Perhaps he might have been spared, at least in part, a painful childhood, and the awkward certainty that he would never belong.
Still, the contrast with his mother made a woman like Anaïs de Rohan feel utterly alien to him—like that mysterious woman he’d met in the dark that night near St. Catherine’s. Miss de Rohan was also far more intriguing than anyone he’d ever known. Which was a little disconcerting when one realized that Sutherland’s argument made a great deal of sense.
Could he travel to Brussels with her? What would it be like to be in her company for days on end? Doubtless she would irritate him raw within hours—thereby curing his fascination, it was to be hoped.
There. Something to look forward to.
But what madness.
At the breakfast table behind him, voices were rising. They were still arguing with one another, while he . . . well, he was arguing with himself.
“So you believe we should accept her,” Ruthveyn grumbled good-naturedly. “Very well, gentlemen. Nothing you do can spoil my happiness. My wedding day is all but upon us, after which I will be going home, quite possibly for months.”
“I do not know what we should do, precisely.” Sutherland was sounding exasperated now. “But I believe she has come here for a reason that even she does not likely understand. And if I have learned anything about her from my review of Vittorio’s records, it is that she will not have given up.”
Slowly, Geoff turned around, and silence fell over the table.
“I think you’re right about that,” he said. “I sensed it last night—that she was not beaten, but meant merely to bide her time. And now I am quite sure of it.”
Sutherland rose a little uncertainly. “You have had a vision, Geoffrey?”
“No.” Geoff’s gaze swept over the table. “No. I just saw her get out of a hansom cab. She’s about to drop the knocker out front.”
Chapter 4
If you know your enemies and know yourself, you will not be imperiled in a hundred battles.
Sun Tzu, The Art of War
Sutherland dragged a hand through his silvery hair. “Well, gentlemen, are we in agreement? Shall we meet with Miss de Rohan, and ask if she is willing to help us out? At least in this one thing?”
“No,” said Geoff, pushing past them all. “No, I am going to speak with her myself.”
“Alone?” asked Sutherland.
His hand already on the doorknob, Geoff turned and pinned them with his stare. “Does anyone else here want to go to Brussels in my stead?”
The men about the table looked at him blankly.
“Then I think this matter is between the lady and me,” he said tightly.
Geoff went swiftly down the wide, white waterfall of marble stairs that spilled so elegantly into the club’s vaulted foyer below, each a little wider than the last. The club was perhaps the most gracious in all of London, with its fine crystal chandeliers, lavish carpets, and the col
lection of European landscapes that bedecked its silk-hung walls.
They had built a lasting legacy here; he, Ruthveyn, and Lazonby, and it had been in many ways the most successful period of his life. For the first time, he had been surrounded by men like himself; by men who believed in the cause of the Fraternitas, and together they had accomplished much.
But he had not been especially satisfied by it all.
It sometimes seemed to Geoff as if his life could be divided into three distinct chapters. There was his childhood—those bleak, often terrifying years of not knowing what he was, or what was wrong with him. And then had come what he thought of as the Enlightenment—his time with his true grandmother in Scotland, his formal education, and eventually, his successful career at MacGregor & Company.
And then Alvin, damn him, had decided to go shooting in the rain—at a time when half their little Yorkshire village was abed with a virulent fever. And thus had begun Chapter Three.
Geoff had been waiting ever since for Chapter Four.
But why was he thinking of this now, and standing at the foot of the main staircase as if lost? Miss de Rohan had no answers for him. She could not even begin to guess at the questions.
But she was waiting somewhere within, and deserved the courtesy of an appointment.
The footman on duty informed him that the lady had indeed arrived, asked to see the Reverend Mr. Sutherland, and been escorted to the club’s bookroom, a private library that was not open to the public.
By virtue of their guise as a society devoted to the study of natural philosophy—a not entirely false façade—the St. James Society often allowed outsiders, even females, access to their libraries, archives, and ancient manuscripts. The collection was vast, and housed in some half-dozen opulently furnished reading rooms throughout the Society’s headquarters.
The private library, however, was a small, intimate room containing their more valuable books, and reserved for the use of members and their guests. The door stood open, and for a few moments Geoff lingered in the shadowy stillness of the passageway, simply watching her move through the room.