Accursed (30 page)

Soon, the fellow who had answered the door pulled back a velvet rope to allow John access to a quieter corridor that branched off, running, he thought, along the back of the house. Then came a narrow set of stairs, but John followed his guide to the second floor, and then up to the third, without incident.

They halted halfway down the third-floor hallway, at a thick wooden door with finishes carved in intricate detail, and the servant paused to knock.

“Come!” called a voice from within.

“He awaits you, sir,” the servant said to John. The man nodded once, then turned on his heel and retreated the way they had come.

John found himself alone in a section of the Algernon Club he knew was reserved for its inner circle, perhaps only the board themselves. It was quiet here, uncannily so. His neck itched, and he slid a finger into his collar, trying again to give himself some air.

Part of him wanted to flee this place, but he knew it was best not to keep his host waiting.

John reached out and turned the knob. The heavy door swung open easily.

The room inside was cast in a strangely crimson gloom. There were red drapes at each window, tied back to allow the gray noon light into the chamber. A ray of sunlight briefly broke through, and dust motes swirled like mist in the air. Then it was gone. There was a fireplace, of course, but no fire had been laid. The chimney was cold and dark.

There were many shelves of books in the room, though he wouldn’t have called it a library. A writing desk stood against one wall, and at the other there was a single low table with two high-backed leather chairs. In one of them sat an elegantly dressed gentleman with a graying beard. He clutched a pipe in one hand, a plume of richly redolent smoke rising from its bowl.

“Good morning, Lord Blackheath,” John said.

“It is several minutes past noon, Mr. Haversham,” the older man said, his words heavy with the weight of admonition. “The morning is gone.”

“Yes.” John nodded. “My apologies for not being more punctual. Good afternoon, then.”

“Good afternoon.”

The moment became awkward. John thought Lord Blackheath might want him to sit in the other chair, but the director offered no word or gesture, no indication whatsoever, so he stood and waited. Almost a full minute ticked by as the man puffed upon his pipe, so that when he spoke, John was startled by the sound of his voice.

“You spent a good deal of time with Tamara Swift last evening.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” John admitted.

“And what is your opinion of the young lady?” Lord Blackheath asked.

A shiver went through him. John remembered the grief he had seen in Tamara’s eyes, but even more he recalled the heat of her body pressed against his, and the hunger in her when she had thought he was making advances. The memory of her lips and tongue upon his fingers, her mouth on him, ignited a fire in his gut that he knew must also have enflamed his cheeks. He hoped Lord Blackheath would not notice in the gloom.

“She is a charming young woman,” he managed at last.

“Do you plan to court her?”

John frowned deeply. “Of course not. My life at present is occupied by other pursuits, as you well know.”

“Indeed.” The gentleman inclined his head. “But, you see, it would suit my needs—the needs of the Algernon Club—were you to see her again.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir.”

Lord Blackheath’s brows knitted in response. “You are not required to understand, Mr. Haversham. Only to perform the duties that are requested of you.”

“Of course,” John said quietly, lowering his gaze.

The older man took a long pull on his pipe, and then exhaled smoke through his nose. “I believe that William Swift has inherited the mantle of Protector of Albion.”

John smiled. “William? You must be joking. Sir Ludlow wouldn’t have chosen him. My cousin Sophia is quite taken with William, but he’s far too stiff and unimaginative to be . . . well, he isn’t the sort, is he?”

“Ah. And aside from having met Ludlow Swift a handful of times in passing and having seen him on the stage, what in your vast experience provides you with the insight to know who is and is not ‘the sort’ of man to become Protector?”

Lord Blackheath smiled, but there was nothing amiable in it. John pulled himself up, to stand straighter.

“Nothing, sir. I misspoke. Perhaps you’re right.”

The gentleman tapped the stem of the pipe against his chin.

“Perhaps. Yes, perhaps. I am not certain, as I said. William Swift will be making an appearance here at the club tonight. You’ve done well, thus far, insinuating yourself with the sister. But she may not even be aware of the truth about her grandfather, of the Protectorship. And I grow impatient. You’ll join us this evening, and we shall determine whether or not William has inherited Sir Ludlow’s position. That is your charge, then, Mr. Haversham. Their father hasn’t been seen in months, you understand, and so it may be that Henry Swift is the Protector, and has gone into hiding for some reason.

“Or it may be that the power has passed out of the family entirely. I believe not. I believe it has fallen to William. But I want to know. And you will find out.”

John’s throat felt dry, and his heart beat too rapidly, but he sensed that he would be free to leave. The thought of getting out of there, and heading straight to the pub, gave him a mighty lift in spirits.

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

I
N HER ROOMS
at Woburn Abbey, the duchess of Bedford fussed over preparations for afternoon tea. She had sent invitations around to a good many of the wives of the members of Parliament, and the ladies were to arrive for tea at five o’clock precisely. There were hours to go, but already Anna Wickham was at her wit’s end.

“What have you done to me, Petersham? What, indeed?”

Petersham was the handsome young man her husband, the duke of Bedford and marquis of Tavistock, had engaged only two weeks earlier, after the passing of their previous man. Now the butler dropped his gaze to the floor. His features were etched with remorse, and when he spoke, he seemed properly chastised.

“I beg your pardon, madam. I cannot fathom how such a thing might have occurred.”

So despondent did he seem that the duchess was tempted to forgive him. But when she thought of the guests who were due to arrive in less than four hours, her ire was further stoked.

“My brother, the viscount Stanhope, is an aficionado of teas, Petersham. One might even call him an expert. His wife is going to be among the ladies in attendance this afternoon. Don’t you think she will know if we promised her China tea, only to serve her India tea, or China for India? Perhaps I cannot tell the difference, even if the kitchen was to brew me a pot of each and I consumed them in their entirety. But that’s not my concern, is it? How could you have allowed the two to become confused?”

Petersham hesitated, then ventured forth.

“I’m told the tea caddy is meant to keep them separate, but with my predecessor’s . . . departure, no one can recall whether it was China on the right and India on the left, or India on the—”

The duchess threw up her hands. “Enough! Sort it out, Petersham. I don’t care how you do it. I don’t care if you have to send to Calcutta and Shanghai this very moment for more, so long as by five o’clock we are able to confidently tell our guests which varieties of tea they are being offered.”

They stood on the landing of the second floor. The duchess knew that other servants would undoubtedly be listening, hungry for fuel that would feed their gossip and set their tongues wagging. But she did not care a whit.

“I shall attend to it, madam.”

“See that you do. And will you
please
take the cook aside, and remind him that the crumpets should be slightly underdone. It’s the only way to avoid having them burned. The man simply cannot—”

At that she stopped. She hadn’t yet run out of vituperative energy, but she was distracted by voices from below.

Anna frowned and moved away from Petersham, descending several steps toward the first floor. She paused when two men came into view, one of them the duke’s personal secretary, Richard Mills. The other was unknown to her, but by his attire she saw that he was a clergyman.

“I must see the duke immediately,” rasped the man in rough, gravelly tones.

“Yes, Your Grace,” said Richard. “Of course. But I am afraid he is resting at the moment. He’s feeling poorly, and has instructed that no one disturb him.”

The bishop’s face reddened.

“
Damn
his instructions, sir. There is a crisis at hand. It can’t be helped. He simply must be interrupted. Take me to him, Mr. Mills, or I think you shall find your services dismissed by nightfall.”

This was enough to embolden the duchess. She did not take kindly to having others issue commands to her servants, or members of her husband’s staff, clergy or not. Even as Richard kowtowed to the bishop, beginning to lead the man up the stairs, she continued downward and blocked their progress.

“Pardon me, Your Grace, but I could not help overhearing. I am Anna, the duchess of Bedford. As Richard has politely informed you, my husband has taken ill. I’m afraid I shall have to ask you to respect his wishes, regardless of the circumstances.”

A look of disdain passed over the bishop’s face, but he paused and gathered himself. He stood there on the stairs, peering up at her.

“The circumstances, as you call them, are beyond your conception, Duchess. Quite beyond, I’m afraid. I am the bishop of Manchester. Perhaps word has reached you, through your husband, of the horror that befell the earl of Claridge at my home several days past?”

Anna paled. She had indeed heard the tale, though she had found it impossible to believe entirely. “I . . . I thought it merely fancy, or an exaggeration. How could such a thing—”

“It happened, my dear,” the bishop replied, more calmly now. There was even a spark of sympathy in his eyes. “And there was no exaggeration. I have never seen the like, and have prayed never to see it again. That prayer fell on deaf ears, I’m afraid, for it
has
happened again, this very morning. Sir Charles Ibbetson has been taken by this terrible malady, his mind driven to madness, his body twisted into a hideous parody of a man. Indeed, he has been given the face and form of a demon.”

The clergyman reached out then, and took her hand. “Madam, the prime minister has summoned the members of Parliament. All are required to attend. But we must do this quietly. Secrecy is of the utmost importance, in order to avoid panic or scandal. I have been sent to retrieve the duke.”

Her hands fluttered toward her face almost of their own volition. The duchess covered her mouth with her delicate fingers, and then nodded. “Yes. Yes, of course. Richard, please follow me. I shall ask you, Your Grace, to wait in the study while I rouse my husband. If you’d like anything, Petersham will remain here, at your service.”

The bishop inclined his head in agreement, and the two of them hurried up the steps. Petersham had followed the entire exchange. Now he stepped quickly out of the way, waiting in silence in case he should be needed in this moment of urgency.

“Richard, come along,” said the duchess.

She heard Petersham quietly offer to fetch the bishop a cup of tea. A mad, errant thought went through her mind as she wondered what would happen if the man stated a preference between China tea and India tea.

Such concerns seemed ridiculous at the moment. Some terrible infection had come to London, and if the bishop was correct, it was spreading. Her hands trembled, and she clasped them together, wringing them as she strode along the hall. The portraits upon the walls seemed to blur at the edges of her vision. Never since her husband had first become a member of the House of Lords had Parliament been summoned in such a clandestine fashion. It was entirely out of the ordinary, and that frightened her terribly.

At the door to the master bedroom, she paused. She glanced at Richard, who hesitated in an uncertain fashion.

“Would you like me to . . . ?” he began.

“No, no,” she replied, managing a wan smile. How foolish it was to have hesitated. Her husband had demanded that he not be disturbed, but this was a summons from Parliament. There was a crisis at hand. It had already tainted two members of the House of Lords, and as such it had to be dealt with straightaway.

So Anna opened the door and went in, with Richard following behind her.

“Husband, Richard is with me,” she began, crossing the darkened room to draw back the curtains. “The bishop of Manchester is here, and he demands to see you. I know that you are poorly, and am terribly sorry to wake you, but . . .”

Her voice trailed off, for her husband had not stirred. The duchess went to another window, nearer the bed, and pulled those curtains aside, as well. Before she could turn, she heard Richard gasp.

“Lord and savior.”

Then there came a hiss from the bed. Trembling, her own breath ragged in her throat, she turned to see.

The duke lay on his side, the bedclothes in complete disarray, twisted around him as though he had been thrashing in his sleep.