Realms of Stone

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “It looks as though Raziel’s army practically demolished the place,” he said. “So, does this mean Romanov is dead?”

  Di Specchio carefully examined the debris, sniffing the air in animal-like fashion. “Lord Raziel failed,” she declared.

  “How can you tell? He left the place a total mess. You can see where the walls were torn through, and there are scorch marks all across the exterior. It looks to me as though Raziel emerged victorious.”

  “It’s obvious you have no eyes to see! You are blind as well as foolish! The castle may be ruined, but is the duchess ours? No, she is not. Raziel failed.”

  “You used to say my eyes were beautiful,” he pouted, kicking at the fallen stones.

  “And so they are, my dear, but those pretty blues have limitations. Now, let us discover what lies inside. With the wards broken, we might be able to locate Anatole’s secrets.”

  “Secrets? Treasures, you mean? Like gold?”

  “Finer than gold, my dear Sir Albert. Much finer. Follow me, and I shall usher you into a realm of sublime truth!”

  She took his soft hand, and together the two Redwing members entered the castle by way of the north entrance. They searched through the debris, and both complained. Wendaway of his back and new shoes, Di Specchio that the items she’d hoped to find weren’t there.

  Neither of the self-possessed pair noticed the large white owl that watched them from within the fading blossoms of an orange tree. The bird’s head tilted to one side as it observed the vampiress and the hapless human. Finally, when it was clear that their search had yielded no fruit, the owl rose up on the high currents above London and headed towards Westminster, where he perched on the slate roof of a magnificent mansion and listened to an eleven-year-old girl practise the piano.

  The owl’s astonishingly blue eyes blinked, and its right foot kept time with the Scottish air’s fluid melody.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Cordelia Wychwright looked pale and tired. To no one’s surprise, her mother had insisted she be given the hospital room one door away from Elizabeth Sinclair. Treves had admitted the disoriented and barely conscious young woman less half an hour after Paul and Charles left for Porter’s Inn, and in that very short time, the baroness had already replaced the bed’s hospital linen with down pillows and a velvet coverlet, embroidered with pink roses.

  The earl knocked on the open doorway, his reaction mixed. On the one hand, it was a great relief to see Delia sitting up, whilst on the other, he suspected a hidden agenda to the young woman’s appearance at the London.

  “Paul,” Delia whispered at seeing him knock on the open door. “I mean, Lord Aubrey, of course.”

  “Are you all right?” he asked as he entered. A nurse had just finished taking the ingénue’s vitals, and the caregiver started to walk away. Baroness Wychwright sat in the far corner of the room, reading a newspaper, and she cleared her throat to attract the nurse’s attention.

  “Miss, you did not take my daughter’s temperature. Mr. Treves insisted that she be monitored closely for signs of fever. I’m sure he’ll be cross should my daughter decline further. Are you a nurse, or merely a student?”

  “A nurse, ma’am, with ten years’ experience. I did take Lady Cordelia’s temperature, my lady, when I first entered. It is slightly above normal. Ninety-nine, point six.”

  “A fever! Do you hear that, Lord Aubrey? And see how flushed her poor face is? You see it, don’t you?” she asked the earl. “Poor darling, how awful to be out all night in such a chill. I shall have that fellow arrested!”

  “What fellow is that?” Aubrey asked as he sat next to the girl’s bed.

  “No one,” Cordelia insisted. “And Mama makes a fuss for nothing. Really, nothing at all.”

  “Delia, how is it that you find yourself in hospital in Whitechapel? Surely, St. Mary’s would be closer to your home.”

  The young woman started to answer, but her mother spoke before she had a chance. “That horrid baronet brought our daughter to this side of town, Lord Aubrey, and he abandoned her. She told him no, again and again, and still he dragged her from a simple party in Belgravia to this hellish borough!”

  “Mama, please!” Cordelia pleaded, her cheeks pinking from embarrassment.

  “I say only the truth. Your father will deal with this man’s family. Yes, he will see to it that the devil is prosecuted and never has opportunity to endanger you or any other young woman again. You can see the state he left her in, Lord Aubrey. My poor, poor child!”

  Paul wanted to throttle the woman. “I wonder, Baroness, would you permit me to speak with Cordelia alone?”

  The baroness offered a practised smile. “Certainly, if that is your wish. It will allow me to send word to the baron again. I cannot think why that man isn’t here!”

  The ambitious woman left, her strident voice echoing in the corridor as she shouted for a nurse. Paul waited several minutes before speaking. He noticed that Delia’s hands and fingers never stopped moving, as though providing occupation for a restless mind. Or perhaps, a guilty one.

  “Cordelia, I’m very sorry you’ve been injured,” he began. “When Charles and I received the message that you’d been admitted, I feared the worst. I’m relieved to see you’re sitting up, at least, but what are those scratches on your face? And your arms show bruises. What happened?”

  “I’d rather not speak of it, Lord Aubrey.”

  “You may call me Paul,” he told her. “It only seems right, as I so often call you Cordelia.”

  “I prefer Delia,” she whispered. All the coquettish mannerisms had disappeared, and the earl saw the true Cordelia Wychwright for the first time.

  He took her hand. “Delia then. Tell me about this man. The one who dragged you to Whitechapel. Who else came along, and what is his name?”

  “You mustn’t tell Mother,” she whispered. “It’s all mixed up and terrible. I sent a telegram to her from the Royal Exchange at six o’clock this morning. I didn’t know what else to do!”

  “What were you doing at the Exchange so early, Delia?”

  “I’m not sure. I walked, you see. I think I wanted to find my father.”

  “Walked? Why didn’t you hire a hansom?”

  Her hand trembled visibly, and her eyes cast about wildly. “I don’t know.”

  He soothed her by stroking the back of her wrist. “We’ll let it go for now. Do you remember anything else?”

  “It started with the party. Mama told me to go, even though I don’t like Lydia Marstead. Do you know the Marsteads? They’re on Chesham Place in Belgravia.”

  “Yes, I know them. Go on.”

  “The party didn’t even start until nine, and I was quite tired. Mama made me drink chamomile tea after supper, and I think it made me sleepy. It gets a bit mixed up after that.”

  “Mixed up?”

  “My memory.”

  Her pupils were large, but that was normal for someone so young. However, her behaviour was anything but normal. “I’ll tell you what. We’ll speak more later. You look as though you could sleep for days. Did the nurse give you anything? A draught of medicine, perhaps?”

  “She had me drink some rather awful water just before you got here. I am sleepy, but will you come back?”

  “I will,” he told her, starting to rise just as Constance Wychwright returned.

  “Did she tell you?” the meddling mother asked him.

  “Let’s speak outside,” Paul insisted, taking her by the arm and leading the baroness back into the corridor. “Over here.” He drew her away from the door so that Cordelia might not overhear. “Who did this to her?”

  “A reprobate baronet, that’s who! She was found at the Exchange this morning in a state of partial undress, Lord Aubrey. I want the man who left her in that condition arrested!”

  “His name?” Paul asked, barely kee
ping his temper in check.

  “Albert Wendaway.”

  “I see,” he answered tightly. “Let me take care of this. Do nothing, Baroness. Do you understand me? Nothing.”

  “I do understand, Lord Aubrey, and thank you for your kindness. I wonder if you and the marquess might convey my heartfelt wishes for a speedy recovery to the duchess? I tried to stop by her room, but she’s speaking with others just now. Lady Victoria and Duke James.”

  “Beth is talking?”

  “Yes. So I understand.”

  “Praise the Lord,” he said, leaving her side. Once the earl departed, Wychwright returned to her daughter’s room, finding Delia half asleep, turned towards the wall.

  “The earl seemed quite concerned, my dear. He insists that he take charge of your protection. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  “Leave me alone, Mama,” Delia whispered.

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “I do!” she answered, still facing the wall. “I’m going to sleep. Please, close the drapes. It’s too bright.”

  The scheming baroness drew the thick drapes together, content that the plan she’d concocted with Albert Wendaway seemed to be working beautifully. If the rumours now circulating through the social clubs and card rooms of the city about Haimsbury were true, then Paul Stuart’s value as a potential husband had increased almost infinitely, for he stood but a heartbeat away from the man some claimed had the right to be called England’s king.

  Charles Sinclair had not laughed so much in days. He sat beside his beloved duchess, listening to a rather animated Duke James tell stories from his childhood, and how he’d learnt to shoot a rifle whilst on horseback. Victoria sat in a nearby chair, nodding off now and then, but occasionally waking to add her own touches to the duke’s colourful tales. Drummond pranced back and forth, arms raised to demonstrate his very imperfect aim as a six-year-old boy, pantomiming his father’s reaction when the shot missed and the deer turned about, causing the horse to rear up and toss his poor shot of a rider to the hard ground.

  Elizabeth coughed now and then, and each time, Charles offered her a sip of lemon water. Tory had thoughtfully brought a packed case for her niece, filled with nightdresses, shawls for modesty and warmth, personal linen, slippers, a mirror, brush, comb, and Beth’s special soap. Their aunt had also helped to wash Beth’s hair and braid it, so that it gleamed against her left shoulder as she lay upon the bed. She’d never looked so beautiful to her husband, not even on their wedding day, for to Charles, Elizabeth was a miracle in flesh and blood. He squeezed her hand, his heart full to bursting.

  “We should let you rest,” Drummond said after finishing his tale.

  Paul watched from the open doorway, his own eyes misty at the touching family scene. His duchess was back and growing stronger, yet his heart felt strangely heavy. What had happened to Gemma Finchley and Cordelia Wychwright? And what role had Albert Wendaway played?

  The duke kissed his granddaughter and then spoke to the earl. “Paul, why don’t you join Tory and me for luncheon? I imagine your cousin will stay and eat with Beth. Unless, you need to sleep, Princess.”

  “I’d relish a few minutes with my cousin first, if you don’t mind. Paul, will you stay and talk to me?” she asked Aubrey.

  “I’d be honoured,” he told her.

  “Thank you, Grandpa. Tory,” the duchess called to her aunt. “Thank you for everything. Please, tell Della that I hope to see her tomorrow.”

  The short speech caused Beth to cough again. Charles gave her the glass once more and then rose to see his aunt and uncle to the door. “I’ll be right back, little one. Drink all of that now. I shall check to make sure you’ve complied when I return.”

  The earl watched his cousin leave, and then took the chair left vacant by Victoria. “You certainly look better,” he said, suddenly feeling like the odd man out. “Where’s Henry? I’d hoped to speak with him about a case.”

  She finished the water, and Stuart took the empty glass and set it on the table beside her bed. “Come closer, Paul, and tell me what’s troubling you.”

  “Troubling me?” he asked, moving to the chair beside her bed. “Nothing, other than worrying about you.”

  “And if I told you that I worry about you as well, how would you respond? Paul, you’ve a look that speaks more loudly than any words. I’ve seen it countless times before, and it always precedes sudden flight.”

  “Flight?” he echoed in confusion. “I’m not sure what you mean. Do I sprout wings and fly away?”

  “No, but you leave. You’re restless and unhappy. Is it because of me?”

  Paul had no wish to tell the truth, for she’d struck a sensitive nerve. “Of course, not. I’ve had very little sleep this past week, and it’s been a chore to keep your wayward husband from charging all over London searching for you. I need sleep not a lecture.”

  “Am I lecturing?” she asked, her smile disappearing. “Forgive me, Cousin. That’s thoughtless of me.”

  “No, Princess, my comment was thoughtless. I’ll admit that it’s still difficult to adjust to my new role in your life, but so long as Charles makes you happy, then I rejoice in it. Honestly, dear, I’m very happy that you and your Captain are together at long last.”

  “I want you to find that same joy, Paul.”

  “I’m content with my life, Princess. I’m a spy, you know. It’s how I’m made.”

  “Then, promise your spying won’t cause those wings to unfurl, all right? That you plan no sudden flights to other countries.”

  He wondered how she knew his mind. In truth, a part of Paul longed to leave London, but he’d promised Charles to remain. Yet, Cordelia’s condition nagged at him, and he found his thoughts fixed on finding Wendaway and teaching him a lesson.

  “Paul? You’re far away already—wingless, yet flying. What is it?”

  He kissed her hand. “Nothing. You should sleep. I’m off to join James and Tory for a much needed meal. It’s been a very long day, and not a crumb to show for it. Enjoy your rest, Princess. You’ve a wee one depending on you now.”

  She smiled, her hands on her slightly rounded abdomen. “Perhaps, two wee ones.”

  “Two? Is the other one Charles?” he laughed.

  “Go eat your luncheon!” she told him as Sinclair returned.

  “I’ll see you this evening,” he told the detective. “Shall I bring you an overnight bag when I visit later?”

  “No need. Baxter sent it with Tory. If you see Reid, ask him about that list.”

  “Of course,” Aubrey said. “Until next we meet, Princess. I love you and always will.”

  He shut the door, and Charles took his former place beside his wife. “Should I be jealous?”

  “Of course not,” she answered seriously. “Oh, I see that was said in jest. Forgive me, Captain, this visit has begun to wear me down.”

  He kissed her forehead. “I can see that. Perhaps, I should join Paul and the others and let you sleep.”

  “Is Henry nearby?”

  “He returned to his clinic, but he promised to visit this evening. I like him, Beth. A great deal. Henry’s a fine man, and I owe him a debt of gratitude that may take years to repay.”

  “He reminds me of you,” she told him. “Kind, thoughtful, and not inclined to take anyone at face value. He challenged Anatole often.”

  “I like him all the more, then. Where is the prince, Beth? I’d expected him to visit you by now, or at least send flowers.”

  “I really don’t know,” she answered, yawning. “Do forgive me, husband. I must close my eyes.”

  “Then, do so, if those beautiful eyes require it. I’ll be with you tonight. All the night through, and we shan’t ever be parted again. That bed felt like an island without you beside me, Beth. A massive, lonely island. I cannot return to it without you.”

  She closed he
r eyes, and he kissed her cheek. Charles considered lying down beside her, but his stomach growled. The sandwiches he and the earl had brought with them had gone cold, so he left the hospital room to join his family at the pub across the way. Whilst the duchess dreamt of playing Knight and Princess in the tree room at Briarcliff Castle, Sinclair heard more tales of boyhood prowess from the man he’d come to think of as a substitute father. James Robert Ian Stuart IV, 10th Duke of Drummond.

  6:11 pm – A hotel in the city

  Contessa Sofia Serena di Specchio gazed into a mirror, admiring her smooth alabaster skin and throat. “Yes, that does make a difference,” she said to the young man who lay upon her bed. “Your is such virile blood, my darling boy. You are a wonderful lover, Marcus, but an even better meal.”

  The youth could barely open his eyes, for she’d taken two pints—more than any other time—and he now teetered on the brink of consciousness, within a twilight dreamland.

  “You needn’t speak, mio amore. Rest now. I shall return to you later.” The tall vampiress licked her ruby lips and began looking through a stylish clothes closet for something to wear for an evening out. “Such old things,” she complained to the dreaming youth. “I require new dresses with beautiful necklines to showcase all that I have to offer, no?”

  She selected an elegant gown of red silk, decorated across the bodice with delicate beadwork formed into black roses. She had long ago ceased using a maid to dress, after three had failed to keep her secrets and died for it. Now, di Specchio let her lovers help with hooks and buttons.

  She stepped into the gown and leaned back against the bed. “Use those talented hands and fasten these for me, my love. Good—no, no! You must button them, Marcus! I have an appointment elsewhere, my darling boy. I’ve no time for play.”

  Once fully dressed, she turned back to the mirror, and in her side vision, she saw the glint of a glimmering shadow. She smiled, revealing sharp teeth. “Prince, you honour me. How may I serve you this evening?”

  Saraqael still wore his new Carpathian, human form. He lay beside the exhausted youth, stroking the boy’s dark hair. “A bit young, isn’t he?”