The Peer’s Roguish Word
Page 20
My bones are consumed with the bitterness that has turned into a cancer and eats me alive. My master has been cheated, the world has stolen from him, and I see no way to avenge him. Pray to God somebody else finds the strength to do it for me. May some worthy soul become the truth and the light.
It was an extraordinary thing to think of, that one’s servant should live their life so vicariously through the ones they served. Kitty did not think Hidgson would ever be so affected. On the other hand, whatever affected Hidgson would only be known to Hidgson, as that particular man did not share his feelings with anybody as far as she knew.
This servant lay dying, praying that someone else become the truth and the light. What did he even mean by it?
Truth. Veritas.
Whatever this poor, mad soul had meant by it, it seemed somebody had taken up the charge.
Kitty closed the book and rubbed the binding with her palm. She could not help, as she read the book, notice the odd binding that rested in her hand. It was strange, and yet familiar. It felt as if she should know what it was, though she had never seen anything like it. It was very like pig skin, and yet she did not think that was quite it.
She finally pulled out her microscope to have a closer look at it, as she was certain it was not anything usual.
Focusing the lens, a latticework of lines came into view. It looked very much like the crisscrossing of footpaths across countryside. Hair follicles were spaced apart. It was similar to the skin of a pig, but the lines were not nearly deep enough, the follicles appeared too close together.
She had seen this somewhere before.
Kitty abruptly sat up. She thought she knew where she’d seen this before. In the book of illustrations her father had given her along with the microscope. In one of van Leeuwenhoek’s drawings that purported to be his own skin under a lens.
She stared at the book that now lay on her desk. It was bound in human skin.
The servant, the writer of this volume, had sounded as if he were going mad. It seemed now that he had gone mad. Completely mad.
What had Sir John been doing with this book? Why had he not told Mrs. Herschel of it?
Or was Sir John being somehow accused of something he had nothing to do with? Was this all part of Lord Grayson’s jest?
“No, it cannot be,” she said softly.
Whatever her roiling ideas of which man was guilty, she was absolutely certain that Lord Grayson would not bind a book in human skin. He would not purchase one so bound either. He would never send such a thing into her house. However little she might understand his nature, she was certain she understood that much at least.
Would Sir John do such a thing, though? Kitty was disturbed to realize that she could not be quite so certain of him.
Who had sent this book? Had it really been in Sir John’s possession?
*
Sir John Kullehamnd, as he styled himself these days, paced his floor. It seemed a cold and empty space. The book was gone and not even a fire laid as Mrs. Smat had absconded too.
A few candles were lit, but they did not shed much light nor warm the air.
This room had once been one of comfort. It was here that he’d gleefully written the letter claiming to be from the mysterious Veritas. That letter that was to put all on notice that John Hill would be revenged. All of the John Hills of the world would be revenged. It was here where he’d reflected on how satisfactorily his plans were unfolding. It had seemed as if luck had been raining down upon him. He’d wondered how to further his acquaintance with Miss Dell, and then it had been the letter he wrote that drew her into his company at Mrs. Herschel’s. Everything flowed smooth and easy.
Now, what had happened? His book, his very bible, was gone. Grayson had called him into question in front of his colleagues. Had the reprobate been able to raise any real doubts about him?
He sipped his laudanum, carefully managing the amount. He had not the funds to keep buying the stuff. He’d not thought he’d need funds much beyond this point, as he should be well on his way to married by now. He could have got ample credit once the banns were read and the size of Miss Dell’s dowry understood.
What if Grayson spurred one of Mrs. Herschel’s set to look into him more closely? He had counted on his intelligence and education to be the calling cards that would invite confidence and dispel suspicion. But what if someone asked to examine his patents? He’d had them forged and planned to use them on Lord Penderton, that fellow was unlikely to know much about Swedish documents. But what if someone like Mr. Mathews asked to see them? He did not think they would fool Matthews, expert on European patents that he was.
He’d done his best to dismiss Grayson once the fool had left Mrs. Herschel’s drawing room. He’d also done his best to get Miss Dell alone.
That confounded mother of hers! The baroness had looked upon him with what he thought might be hatred. She had refused to allow her daughter to leave her side and then just as quick, took her out to their carriage.
It felt as if his dream was slipping away.
It could not slip away! There was no other course he could take. He was practically penniless, having sold all of his worldly goods to set himself up in London. He could not start over somewhere, there was nothing to start over with.
Even if he had the means to flee, would he do it?
“Of course I would not,” he said, looking up at the ceiling. “I am your knight, the veritas and the lux. I am only being tested, that is all.”
He was certain God heard his words and hoped God would send an answer. If he were being tested, how would he pass the test? How would he succeed in the end?
He swigged the last of the bottle of laudanum and stood staring at the cold hearth for some minutes.
And finally, heaven-sent, came the answer. He remembered a particular line in the book, as if it had been sent to him to consider. My master has determined that what has not been given freely must be taken.
Of course he must take what was necessary to his success. He was a knight of truth and light, after all.
Chapter Seventeen
Kitty was determined to put aside the mystery of Veritas for at least one evening. It was the night of Lady Hathaway’s themed ball and she had looked forward to it for months. Penny had told her all about it—last season had been the remarkable Tudor ball in which Lily Farnsworth had been carried off by Lord Ashworth.
This year was to be Valhalla and Kitty had every expectation of encountering the God Odin and his Valkyries.
It would be a welcome diversion. The season had been meant to be one of entertainments and interesting visits to Lackington and Allen, but the cloud of the mystery of Veritas had hung over everything. Finding herself in possession of a book bound in human skin had seemed to wake her from an over-engrossing and dangerous dream.
She must put all of this aside! It was not her responsibility to unmask Veritas. Further, it was hardly a life and death matter if Mrs. Herschel’s friends failed and the society was embarrassed in some way. And really, that ridiculous society did not even allow women through its doors! Why should she have all her thoughts taken up by this?
She found she could not help but be influenced by some of the things Lord Grayson had accused them all of. She had been a little ridiculous. If Lord Grayson was Veritas and laughed at her expense, perhaps she deserved it, if only a little bit. She could not ignore the sense of absurdity she’d felt as she’d read through the society’s papers looking for clues. She knew the subjects were all worthy, nothing discovered was unworthy, and yet there was something silly in the over-formal language used to describe a fly’s ability to land on a wall. It was the sort of style one might use to make a speech in Parliament.
It was as if Lord Grayson had shined a light on her doubts and brought them out for her to examine.
She blushed to herself as she thought of how often she’d spoken of her research into Cornish eyebright to people who likely had little interest in it. Frederick always teased h
er about it. Perhaps he was in some way right and she had been tedious.
It was not that she thought she ought to give up untangling the world’s mysteries, or fail to be fascinated by others’ observations, but perhaps she need not be so fixated on it. Perhaps one interest had blinded her to any other. Perhaps she might make more room for other things. She would not like to end as the faithful servant of Sir John Hill had done—obsessed with a single subject all her life.
She was young and she ought to be more carefree. She knew her mother thought it, and so far, her mother had been right about things.
Kitty had wrapped the book in layers of cloth and put it away. She did not know what else to do with it. Until she did, she would forget all about this nonsense and go to a ball.
Thinking of the ball naturally led, or so it seemed to Kitty, to thoughts of Lord Grayson. How unhappy a circumstance it was that he was not more genuine. What would it have been if he had come as a real suitor when she’d met him at Newmarket? What would it have been if all the world approved of him and were confident of his motives?
Kitty sighed. But then, she supposed, he would not be Lord Grayson at all.
“Are you ill, miss?” Martha asked, fussing with the folds of her skirt.
“Goodness, no,” Kitty said, pulling her thoughts to the present. “Why do you say so?”
“It’s all the sighing. I never heard so much sighing from one who wasn’t pained.”
Kitty smiled. She supposed she was pained. But if she was, it had been all her own doing. Further, what had been done could be undone. She was a young woman, fortunate enough to have been born into a family who had both the love and financial means to see to her every comfort and happiness. There was a ball this evening and, for once in her life, she would not overanalyze. She would go, she would dance and laugh, and she would analyze nothing.
*
LaRue brushed one of the few good coats Giles had not sold. Lady Hathaway’s ball was this evening and it seemed the Viking theme was less than a closely-guarded secret. He had ordered that he would wear his dark blue coat with the silver buttons. It had a military air and was as close as he could come to an homage to a marauding Viking.
As LaRue fussed, Giles had spent quite a bit of time laying out all the facts in an attempt to unravel Sir John’s motives. None of his speculations added up to much.
LaRue was not generally helpful, but this time he might have been. When Giles had finished listing everything he now knew, La Rue had said, “Mon Dieu, he is insensé. So many mad Englishman. It is in the water, no?”
Despite the insult of hinting that the English were all prone to madness, LaRue might have made a point. If something did not seem to make sense, perhaps the cause was that there was simply no sense in it.
Sir John was exceedingly odd, there was something not quite right about him. He might very well be unhinged in some fashion. There were people that might pass themselves off as relatively sane when they were not. Hadn’t he had an old great uncle who believed he could talk to trees? The fellow had got on well enough as he was convinced that the trees had made him promise not to tell anybody outside of a blood relation, and so he hadn’t. If there was something wrong in Sir John’s head, that would explain why there seemed to be no motive, no gain, in creating Veritas.
Now, his book was gone and Giles had revealed to Sir John that he knew him to be Veritas. What if Sir John were to become desperate? What might he do then?
But then, maybe the madman did have a gain in mind. It occurred to him that Sir John’s real interest in Miss Dell must be her dowry. His house was empty, he clearly did not have the funds to furnish it. Wishing to make an advantageous marriage was not madness though, and it certainly would not have necessitated creating Veritas.
“My God,” he said.
LaRue looked at him critically. “Your cloth is perfect, what more can you want from poor LaRue?”
“It is not my dress,” Giles said. “It occurs to me that, yes, Sir John is on the hunt for a large dowry. But not any large dowry. In particular, it must be Miss Dell’s dowry. He is out for money and revenge and only Miss Dell’s dowry will do. It was her grandfather and Martin Folkes that stopped John Hill from becoming a fellow of the society. Folkes doesn’t have a granddaughter of marriageable age. Only Penderton does. Marry Miss Dell and he ends with both—money and revenge. Though, I still do not comprehend why he attempts to revenge John Hill. Perhaps he is a relation of some sort and has taken it on as a family honor sort of thing.”
“Miss Dell will hardly agree to marry the proprietor of funerals in the badly cut coat,” LaRue said disdainfully.
“No, I think you may be right on that point, though not because of his clothes,” Giles said. “At least, I would hope she has more sense. But what will he do if he is refused?”
“Carry her off like a Valkyrie?” LaRue said, clearly amused by his own wit.
“He might try something like it,” Giles said. “Sir John’s Valhalla being Gretna Green.”
“It takes many days to reach the border.”
“That is no matter,” Giles said. “One night in a carriage alone and she’d be ruined. She’d have to marry him.”
LaRue gave a final tug on Giles’ coat to straighten an imaginary wrinkle. “As I say, the English are mad.”
Perhaps they were mad. Perhaps he was mad. He was inventing plots in the air. It was highly unlikely Sir John had the fortitude to attempt such a thing. It would be a kidnapping. No, certainly not. The persnickety Sir John was not up to such derring-do.
On the other hand, what if Sir John was truly mad? If that were the case, commonsense could not dictate what he might try. Was there not madness in this whole mystery? Sir John attempted to avenge a man long dead for what cause? Only the mad worked to no end.
It could not hurt to be careful. Miss Dell must be put on her guard. Much more on her guard than she had been. He must tell her he sent her the book, and what he had discovered about the name Kullehamnd. She should not go to Mrs. Herschel’s salon until Sir John had been dealt with. It was the one place he knew to find her.
*
Sir John had kept a careful watch on Lady Hathaway’s house. It had continually amazed him how easy it generally was to discern where a person would be in this town. That was, where a person from any kind of consequential family would be.
The newspapers outlined what parties would be held, where and when—most likely with the assistance of the hostess. For small affairs, one might see reference to particular guests. Mrs. Jamison and Lord Reager are both expected to attend, or some such phrasing. For larger scale events, particularly balls, no list of guests was provided, but usually a number to indicate the size of the gathering. In this case, Lady Hathaway will host upward of two hundred. Along with the size of the ball, it was noted that this was an annual ball and would have a theme. The newspaper claimed that the theme was always a closely guarded secret that was delightfully revealed to her guests upon their arrival.
It was not so secret as far as he could tell. As he watched the first comings and goings, it was clear enough to be a Norse theme. The front doors had just been topped with a papier mâché bow of a ship, a statue he thought might be Odin had been carried to the back of the house not a half hour ago, an enormous mural depicting Valkyries swooping a battlefield followed. Carts full of gold-painted shields had arrived. What he also noticed was the looseness of the preparations.
On a usual day, it would be impossible to penetrate the walls of such a great house. The front doors would be manned by footmen and a butler, the servant’s entrance would lead into the kitchens and a territorial cook. On this day, the back garden was being transformed for the ball, and various workmen came and went as they pleased.
He occasionally saw a man in a stiff black coat walk among the chaos, his hands clasped behind his back as if he surveyed his kingdom. The butler, no doubt. But what that man never seemed to do was question anybody about their right to be there.
Once he had calmed himself with a draught, a part of the how presented itself. As the hour grew late and the sun had already disappeared behind the rooftops, God took pity on his confusion. A large cart pulled up with all manner of costume piled high in it. As far as he could tell, there were long black capes and brass breastplates and metal headgear sprouting large black feathers. The helmet had a front piece of hammered metal with two slits punched out to go over the eyes. He very much suspected it was a costume meant to suggest Valkyries.
Sir John casually edged closer to the cart and overheard the driver’s conversation with a servant who’d come jogging to it.
The footman peered into the cart and said, “Ah, yes, this will be for the footmen to wear as they lead the guests over the water to Valhalla.”
The driver had snorted and said, “The ton do got their notions, don’t they?”
The footman had appeared entirely affronted and said, “I suppose you’ve been paid well for the notion, as you call it.”
“Aye, don’t get your back up over it,” the driver said.
The footmen nodded and said, “Never mind, carry them to the back entrance and somebody will take them from you.”
The footman strode off to manage the thousand other things that must be attended to. The driver began to haul the contents of the cart to the back of the house. The old man could not carry it all at once, though.