Neco slid an arm under his, managing the uncoordinated protest of limbs as easily as he would a one-day-old calf. He lifted Greyston clear off the chair and whispered at his ear, “You wouldn’t want to disappoint the lady waiting in your bed.”
“Ah, the lovely Georgina,” Greyston slurred. A vision of the luscious beauty, wearing nothing but copper curls and a naughty smile, sloshed from side to side inside his head. His protests went slack against the massive hulk of Neco.
“Now wait a minute,” blustered Harchings, brandishing the bottle in front of him. “We’re not done here.”
“Begging you pardon, m’lord,” Neco said, “but Grey here is.”
“Go ahead without me,” Greyston told Harchings, flourishing his arm. “The less mouths to share, the merrier.”
Neco waited until the duke had flopped back into his chair, then he half-walked, half-carried Greyston up the garden lawn. “I’ll return for the duke once I’ve seen you to bed.”
“He won’t like that.” Greyston stopped walking and started resisting. “But I think I would. This I have to see.”
“I will be enlisting Lady Evelyn’s assistance,” Neco said. “She will not be happy at the state you’ve left her husband in.”
A shudder rippled through Greyston. “On the other hand, you seem to have everything under control.” He picked up the pace with a wobbled lurch.
Only two more unscheduled stops later, Greyston was flung into an unceremonious sprawl across the bed. He rolled off his stomach and onto his back, almost twisting Neco over with him as the man tugged at his boots.
His head lolled left, then right. What is missing? He gave his man standing at the bottom of the bed a suspicious look. “Georgina isn’t here.”
“She will be.” Neco caught the edge of the woollen bedcover and flipped half over him. “Close your eyes and count to a hundred, and the lady will come.”
“That makes no sense,” he groused.
“Fifty, then.”
That didn’t make sense either, but the thought of shutting out the piercing gaslight for a moment didn’t seem so bad. He closed his eyes. He was still scrambling for what it was Neco had said he should do next, when his mind blanked out altogether.
SEVENTEEN
The heart of the Queen’s annual trade convention pulsed in the splendorous Royal Gallery of Westminster Palace.
From his position at one of the many intimate seating arrangements designed to encourage private negotiations and trade treaties, Kelan’s attention splintered on all the balls he juggled.
In a far corner, a representative of the American Aethernautical Commercial Company conferred with a Russian official, heads bowed close in deeply agitated confidence. The monolith American company, with a giant fleet of twelve cargo airships, dominated Aether trade and was in bed with the Russians. They’d brokered a market monopoly in exchange for supplying Siberian coastal settlements at a time when England was engaged in sensitive discussions over the Ottoman Empire.
The imminent opium trade war, however, wasn’t first and foremost on Kelan’s mind.
The demons had been busy last night. They’d gained access to the top floor of Claridge’s via the basement laundry and service stairwell, and ransacked two suites of rooms, in which the Russian’s was included. Both suites had been unoccupied during the incident. Kelan didn’t know if the demons had found what they’d been looking for, but the Russian hadn’t alerted Claridge’s management or the authorities.
The relevance was there, darting into a shadowed recess each time Kelan reached for it.
Across the table from him, sat a less perplexing problem. Count Constantine von Edelberg was the Austrian Minister for Trade and International Economy; a stern-looking man with pensive character and a perfectly reasonable argument.
“Let me get this straight,” Kelan said to him. “You intend to introduce a shipping levy on all non-Aether trade routes.”
The Count stroked his peppered beard. “We prefer to think of it as a discounted incentive on premium Aether routes.” Shrewd eyes tried to read Kelan, and failed. “We have no wish to alienate the greater British Empire, you understand, but we have to consider the requirements of our manufacturing industries and the cost of antiquated delays.”
“The greater British Empire has no restrictions in the Aether,” Kelan countered. “Only England will be penalised.”
He’d won Victoria over to his Dirigible Restriction Act with passionate assertions. Great Britain is an island, bounded and protected by the ocean. Our navy is undefeated and impenetrable. If we open up our skies to unregulated access, we sell out our best defence. Despite the Queen’s love affair with her navy, she’d have been a less enthusiastic convert if she didn’t have trade from bountiful colonies to line her pockets.
The Count would not be deterred. “Then the impact should be minimal.”
The men locked gazes in a battlefield of will, but Kelan knew this was the beginning of the end. Austria was a small fire, but they were the spark that would catch on vines cut off and left to dry too long. Technological advancement could only be stymied so much before England crippled.
“Change takes time and money.” Kelan inclined his head at the man and conceded. “Give us one year’s reprieve.”
The Count pulled a fat folder onto the table, Moroccan leather the colour of bruised purple. “One year, then you’ll allow our airships to dock?”
“Or we’ll accept your levy amiably,” Kelan said, playing cards not in his hand for breathing space.
“Fair enough,” the Count murmured as he thumbed through the papers inside his folder. “We’ve taken the liberty of drawing up preliminary trade routes for you to consider during your deliberations.”
A scowl arrested the man’s face. He wrenched out a thick wad of documents to sort through individually.
Alarm bells rang inside Kelan’s head. “Is anything amiss?”
“No, not at all.” He stood, shuffling papers into the folder with a distracted air. “I’ll have my aide deliver the trade routes.”
The Austrian noble was a lanky man and generally carried himself with dignified grace. Now, his chin burrowed in his neck and his shoulders stooped as he drifted from the table, his nose buried in the purple folder.
Kelan watched thoughtfully, wondering if the Count was another victim. Last night he’d staked out Claridge’s with the lads and he hadn’t left to collect Lily from her aunt’s until the demons had stirred their mischief and vacated Mayfair. But he supposed there was no reason to assume the demons hadn’t returned for round two in the early hours of the morning.
Demons didn’t require sleep, but his lads did. He’d instructed them to see the demons safely to Seven Dials and then make their own way home.
Kelan’s gaze passed over the room. Scottish and English monarchs gilded in battle pose flanked the doorways and their coats of arms guarded the stained-glass windows. Above, the panelled ceiling proudly boasted Tudor roses and passant guardant lions.
Coordinated meetings were held twice daily in the adjoining halls and poorly attended. The real business was done in the Royal thoroughfare where foreign government officials clustered in flavours of their natural alliances.
Adorning the space in front of the wall as decoratively as the painting of ‘The Death of Nelson’ at his back, General Chen Xiucheng stood apart from the other dignitary clusters. His formal robes were a vibrant apricot, shot through with gold and blue threads, and decorated with emblems of the sun and dragons. His partially shaven hair was coal black, scraped back from a broad face into a long queue that reached halfway down his spine. A sea of silken silver-robed aides surrounded him, securing the small territory he’d claimed for himself within England’s hallowed hall.
China was run like a military machine; the Emperor’s imperial iron cloak wrapped the entire country. Kelan doubted a grain of rice changed hands without approval from one of Qing’s Generals.
This was the first convention they’d
attended and the General was here to observe, not negotiate. China delivered agreements procured in blood for the rest to take or leave. They had scant respect—or need—for the West. Losing the Opium War, and Hong Kong, to Victoria had only hardened that sentiment.
Thank God the demons left that one to be.
Kelan’s attention moved on, and it wasn’t long before an eye caught his and a hand beckoned, pulling him back into his duties.
The day ended with a formal reception in the Octagon Hall to close the week. The magnificent vaulted ceiling was inlaid with Venetian glass mosaics in heraldic devices of Rose, Thistle and Shamrock. Here again, statues of English and Scottish monarchs guarded each of the archway entrances and stood watch over the assembly of foreign nations engaging in diplomatic farewells.
If the demons hoped to annexe the trade convention to oust England’s Dirigible Restriction Act, they’d run out of time. Was last night at Claridge’s their grand stand?
Footmen bearing silver trays weaved a seamless path to keep the champagne and canapés flowing; one bearing a simple white envelope made a beeline for Kelan. He recognised his own McAllister seal and bowed politely out of present company into the quiet hallway before tearing open the missive.
St. Stephan’s Entrance
Armand
Crumpling the note in his fist, Kelan made his way up the stairs and through St. Stephan’s Porch to the exit. Armand’s presence spoke of the urgency more than any words could.
Armand waited in the shadows of the front façade, observing the comings and goings at his leisure. Without any indication he’d seen Kelan, he started a slow amble up the palace yard.
“The demons are here,” he said in a low voice as Kelan fell in step beside him.
Kelan resisted the urge to glance about. “Inside?”
Armand shook his head. “They’ve hired a private carriage and are across the street. It’s the black Brougham, pulled up directly behind the blue and gold that’s gilded like a coronation state coach—you can’t miss it.”
Keeping to the shadows of the palace buildings as they approached Great George Street crossroad, Kelan dipped his head to slant an unobtrusive glance. The first thing that snagged his eye was the blue dragon emblazoned across the two doors of the state coach. “The state wagon belongs to China.”
Behind the coach, the Brougham was one in a long line of insipid black carriages pulled up around the square, waiting for Westminster to expel its distinguished guests.
His gaze flashed over the driver perched atop the high seat. Hat tugged low, dark coat, staring straight ahead with the perpetual boredom of one who spent his life waiting. “Is that one of them?”
“Yes.” Armand said. “The other is inside. We came as soon as Archie informed us they’d tailed the demons to Westminster. Whatever they’re up to, it can’t be good.”
They made their way through the wrought iron gate at the top of the yard and crossed the road into Great George Street before coming down again on the other side of the square. Brinn waited there with the carriage, black cloth tucked in the door hinges to hide the McAllister crest.
Kelan put a hand up to stop him jumping down from the driver’s box as he walked up to Liam and Archibald, who loitered by nearby bushes. “Any other news?”
“They didna leave the Cock and Pye until midday,” Liam informed him. “They took a hackney cab ta Charing Cross ta arrange the hire, then spent the afternoon in the pub across from the jobmaster until it came time ta collect their carriage.”
“They’ve been sitting here since,” Archibald finished, peering through a gap in the thorny bramble. “I wasna sure if they were up ta stalking ye or another, but all this sitting stuck in mae craw. We thought it best fer Armand to fetch ye out o’ the rabbit hole so ye can see fer yerself.”
“You made the right call.” Kelan looked across the square. The tops of carriages skimmed the bush-line, giving a clear view of their target.
The next move belonged to the demons.
He retreated the small distance to his own carriage, his back pressed to the shrouded door. His gaze settled on Armand and his mind turned to the man’s recent excursion. He folded his arms, legs crossed at the ankles. “How’s my father?” he drawled.
“Five messages awaited me in Hampstead Heath,” Armand returned with blithe disregard for the cynical look Kelan held him with. “Two from your mother. She’s eager to know when you intend to bring your new wife home for a visit.”
“Is it too much to hope I made no promises?” Kelan said.
“Your calendar is chock full at the moment, but as soon as the pressures of the season relent, you’ll correct the oversight,” Armand said dryly. “Your father expresses concerns with the quantity and quality of demons.”
The rapid rate of demon influx was no longer a mystery. Lesser demons were two-a-penny, following their masters across the tear. Divulging the details to his father changed nothing, helped no one, and might well bring on another serious attack.
Kelan’s mouth hardened. He moved his gaze from Armand to the drizzled glitter of the Victoria Tower. He’d learnt to live with his father’s spy, but he’d not yet learnt to like it.
“My father’s heart is no longer what it used to be,” he said, concerned the detail Armand insisted on divulging might bring on another serious attack. Too many years; too many worries.
Armand remained an unaffected, faithful servant. “Your father has earned his right to make his own decisions about what he can and cannot handle. You’d expect no less when you attain his age.”
If I ever attain my father’s age, something would have gone desperately wrong.
The window at Kelan’s back rolled down. He pushed away from the door and turned. A beautiful young man looked out at him. Amused by his reaction, Kelan looked again.
Lily.
Hair scraped back brutally, not a single curl escaped the wide-brimmed felt hat. Collar coat turned up high to shade her throat, chin, and the lower half of her cheeks.
“What is happening?” she demanded.
“Nothing yet.” He gestured for her to scoot across the seat so he could open the door and climb inside. The brass buttons of her full-length coat stopped at the waist, encouraging the chocolate brown suede to slide seductively over glimpses of buckskin breeches as she moved.
A grin tugged his lips. “Is there purpose to your disguise?”
“I’m dressed up for a demon skirmish.” She arched a brow at him. “It would be a shame to waste it.”
Kelan seated himself on the bench across from her. His gaze raked the contours hidden beneath suede. When his eyes touched on her lips, his blood heated and pulsed like thick syrup. His hand was a poor substitute for the passion of Lily’s kisses and the charge ignited when he’d caressed those scantily clad curves. Marriage was a strange animal. In the beginning, his vows had kept him celibate, but more and more he felt Lily taking on that role. Seemed he no longer had the faintest interest in any woman who was not his wife.
“That would be a shame.” He allowed a trickle of simmering desire to edge around the barrier of his self-imposed blockade and patted the spot beside him. “I have some ideas to put that outfit to good use.”
A scowl darkened her expression, but her eyes went to his hand and lingered. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
The carriage rocked, disrupting the indulgent moment. Lily’s gaze shot up in alarm as the door ripped open.
“They’re on the move, pulled out after the state coach.” Armand fell inside and slammed the door. “The lads are up top with Brinn.”
“The demons are on China’s tail?” Kelan said, seeking confirmation as the carriage jolted forward.
Armand nodded. “It looks that way, for now.”
Lily’s gaze darted between them. “A delegate from your trade convention?”
“General Chen Xiucheng.” Kelan digested the information. His fingers drummed the seat while his gut churned out devastating implications. Was i
t possible? A glance out the window told him they were heading south, with the Thames at his left. “If the demons want an ally against England, they’ve hand-picked a deadly choice.”
“An ally?” Lily gasped.
“I thought they wanted to abolish the Dirigible Restriction Act,” Kelan said, “but that may well be a gross underestimation of their ambitions.”
Armand’s natural olive tones paled as he lost some of that perpetual ennui. “China harbours a deep hatred for England, enough to seal a bargain with the devil himself.”
Lily sat forward, one hand gripping the armrest. She was full of questions and he had no answers, only guesses.
Her nose wrinkled at the preposterous suggestion. “Barter openly and knowingly with demons?”
Kelan discerned the naïve disbelief writ all over her face. Men often went much further for far less. “What do you know of the Opium War?”
“China arbitrarily negated all our trade treaties,” Lily said with a small frown. “They attacked British ships in international waters and ransacked the cargo holds like common pirates.”
“We want China’s tea, silk and porcelain, but they want nothing from us,” Kelan told her. They were passing Millbank Penitentiary now, a brick fortress built on the bank of the Thames. Still heading south. Every now and then, a turn in the road put the Brougham in his line of view, but not the state coach. If the demons were following China, they were doing so at a discreet distance.
“When we had enough of paying in hard silver, we started shipping opium there from our poppy fields in India,” he continued. “The only cargo appropriated was opium destined for ports in direct violation of the bans imposed by the Emperor, and it was confiscated, not stolen.”
“The Emperor claims our smuggling activities justifies their pirate antics,” Armand inserted.
“He’s not all wrong,” Kelan said. “In China’s eyes, we are the plague that brought—and continues to bring—the opium that poisoned its population and laid waste to half its cities. The ruins left behind by opium addiction is as bad as any hell the demons could foist on China’s people.”
The Dark Matters Quartet Page 61