The Bride Wore Scarlet (6 page)

“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

S
utherland 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 collection 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.

Bathed in a slanting shaft of morning sun, the elegant young woman scarcely resembled the earth goddess he'd met last night. Miss de Rohan was roaming along one of the bookshelves, pausing occasionally to tug out one of the volumes, flip it open, then shove it back again, as if nothing could possibly please her.

Today she wore a brilliantly hued walking dress of royal-blue silk faced with black satin, her mass of dark hair caught in a loose, untidy arrangement that looked as if she'd tucked it up as an afterthought. This precarious arrangement was topped by a little hat set at an almost rakish angle; a confection of black ribbons and blue ruching trimmed with three black feathers. To complete the ensemble, a black velvet reticule on a tasseled silk cord swung merrily from her wrist.

She wasn't precisely beautiful, no, and the dress was perhaps more striking than strictly
à la mode
. But the hat—ah, now the hat hinted at a certain impudence. On the whole, it made for an almost breathtakingly lovely vision.

She shoved the last of her perusals back into place with a quiet little sigh. “Pray do not keep me in suspense, Lord Bessett,” she said without looking at him. “Are you still angry with me, I wonder?”

Startled, Geoff strolled into the room, his hands clasped behind his back. How on earth had she seen him, when she'd not once turned her head?

“Does it matter if I'm angry?” he asked.

She sighed again, then spun about to face him. “Just to be clear, I'm not one of those silly misses who goes haring about stirring up trouble for sport,” she answered. “Yes, it matters. Is that really what you thought last night? That I wouldn't be back? That this was a lark?”

Geoff was no longer sure what he thought. “Miss de Rohan, might I ask—what brought you to this strange point in life?”

“I beg your pardon?” She lifted her slanting black eyebrows. “What point is that?”

Carefully he measured his words, but there were things he needed to understand. “You must know that your actions last night put your reputation in grave jeopardy,” he said. “An unmarried lady of good breeding—”

“—showing her shift
and
her ankles in public?” she finished, her hands clasped almost modestly before her. “Indeed, but I know, too, what the ceremony requires, and how much your Preost values it. I did what I could bear to do. I compromised. I am not . . .
brazen
, Lord Bessett. Well, not in that way.”

Geoff tried not to scowl. “If you meant to go through with such folly, you could have met first with the Reverend Mr. Sutherland and—”

“And given him the chance to refuse me straight out?”

“—and asked for a special dispensation.”

She took a step toward him, hands still clasped, her black velvet reticule swinging from her wrist. “One must begin as one means to go on, Lord Bessett,” she said, her voice far too husky for his comfort. “A woman cannot expect to be treated as anything near an equal if she sets out by asking for special favors. Besides, we both know that the ceremony clearly states that the sponsor must introduce his candidate
at the initiation—
a ritual that dates to the twelfth century. Tradition is everything to the
Fraternitas
. I was not about to be the one who broke with it—not any more than I had to.”

“I understand what tradition means to us, Miss de Rohan,” he said, gentling his tone. “But I know, too, what a young lady's reputation means to her in England. Times have changed a little, perhaps, for unmarried females of good breeding. But not
that
much.”

“To be perfectly honest, Lord Bessett, my breeding is nothing to be bragged about,” said Miss de Rohan coolly. “I've got trade on one side, and a long line of rakes and rapscallions on the other. In his youth, my father actually worked for a time as a Bow Street Runner. On those rare occasions he entered a gentleman's home, it was generally through the servants' entrance. Did you know that about him? No, I thought not.”

He had not known. “Well, if he was, it was because he chose to be,” he smoothly countered. “He did not have to do so merely to earn a living.”

She dropped her chin and looked up at him chidingly. “So, when a man lowers himself, it is a noble sacrifice, but when a woman tries to do it, it is a lark?” she suggested. “My father has an obsession with justice, yes. Watching your father being burned alive by revolutionaries will do that to you. And I could do worse than to follow in his footsteps.”

Geoff narrowed his gaze. “Is that how you see this?”

She shrugged lightly. “However I see it, your concern for me is moot,” she continued. “We both know the
Fraternitas
is sworn by blood to secrecy. And all of you have seen more than your share of pretty ankles before. But somehow, I'm not sure that's what you are getting at here.”

“No,” he said. “No, it isn't.”

She strolled along one of the tufted leather sofas, pausing to draw her fingers in a slow, almost sensual gesture over a marble bust of Parmenides that sat on a little table behind it. He could not pull his eyes away from her. And today, absent the rush of temper and emotion, the woman seemed oddly familiar to him.

He was almost certain he had met her before, but he searched his mind and came up empty. He must be mistaken. She would never blend into the
ton
's crowd of simpering, pale-faced beauties. Would never be the sort of woman a man forgot once he'd met her.

She lifted that hot black gaze and pinned him with it. “I am not going away, Lord Bessett,” she said softly. “I can't give up that easily. I owe that much to my great-grandmother, and to Vittorio. I want to know if my records have been reviewed by the Preost. I want to know if there is any reason the St. James Society refuses me, other than my sex. Can you answer that for me, sir? Or must I camp on your doorstep until the Preost comes out? And pray tell him not to bother with the back gardens and that hidden passageway to St. James Park. I was on to that trick by the age of ten.”

At that, he laughed aloud. The notion of Anaïs de Rohan laying siege to poor old Sutherland was . . . well, entirely plausible, really.

“I am glad, Lord Bessett, that you find me so vastly entertaining,” she said.

“I must confess, you do begin to grow on a fellow.” Then he sobered his tone. “But a woman will never be admitted to the
Fraternitas
. I'm sorry. I don't know why your great-grandmother thought it possible.”

“But I did everything that was—”

He held up a staying hand. “And I believe you,” he said. “Vittorio's records reflect it. He was the strongest of our Advocati in the Mediterranean. He was willing to fight for what he believed in, and he was no man's fool.”

At that, something like grief sketched across her face. “No, he was not. He was . . . he was  . . .” Her words withering, she turned and paced suddenly to the window.

Geoff had never been especially softhearted, but something inside his chest lurched all the same. “Miss de Rohan,” he said, following to touch her lightly on the shoulder. “I did not mean to—”

She was already dashing at her eyes with the back of her wrist. “It's all right,” she said hastily. “It's just that . . . he was my kinsman. My mentor. And I just miss him a little, that's all.”

“The entire
Fraternitas
misses him,” said Geoff softly, drawing back his hand.

She lifted her gaze to the window, and stared down at St. James's Place below. He could see a hint of her reflection shimmering in the glass below his own; her wide, mobile mouth a little tremulous beneath eyes that were hollow with grief.

They were like lightness and dark seen together thus; her dark gown and black tresses against his sun-streaked hair and brilliant white cravat. It was but the most obvious of their differences, he did not doubt. There would be many more buried deeper, and far harder to flesh out.

But he did not need to flesh out a bloody thing with Anaïs de Rohan. He did not need to know her at all. He merely needed her to accompany him to Brussels for a few weeks.

Which was the same thing as saying he wished her to toss her good reputation to the four winds.

And to work and travel cheek by jowl with a woman as vivacious as she, and not get to know her? Christ, both were unthinkable.

But not undoable. Not unsurvivable. Not when there was a child's life at stake. A child who, even now, was almost certainly terrified and confused. Giselle Moreau's guardian was dead. The child had been left with no one to guide her—let alone protect her—through the most difficult years of her life, those years when she would have to come to grips with the terrible truth about herself. To accept that she was different. That she was cursed with a gift that was no sort of gift at all.

He knew what it would be like for Giselle Moreau, for he had lived through it.

The child must be brought to England, and assigned a new Guardian. She must be kept safe during this terrible, vulnerable phase. And if that meant he had to live with Anaïs de Rohan—had to look into those hot-chocolate eyes of hers every day over breakfast, and not lay a hand on the woman—then, yes. It was doable. It was survivable.

But she was looking at him in the window now, all too aware that he had been watching her. Geoff grappled for some inoffensive line of conversation.

“Tell me, what was he like, Vittorio?” he finally asked.

“Old,” she said with a thready laugh. “Old, and very, very Tuscan. But from the age of twelve, I spent a few months each year with him, and came to love him like a grandfather. Even though at first . . . at first I really did not wish to go. But I know he wanted what was best for me.”

Geoff gently turned her from the window. “Did he want . . . all this for you?” he asked, opening his arms expansively. “The decision was your great-grandmother's, but what did Vittorio think?”

Her gaze shuttered for an instant, and he thought she might refuse to answer.

“He had misgivings,” she finally admitted. “What man would not? But Vittorio was from a different time. A different way of life. We live in a changing world, Lord Bessett. Even the
Fraternitas
is changing—and you have been the instrument of that change. Heavens, you have consolidated all the records and genealogies, built laboratories and libraries, and brought together a once far-flung group from across the Continent. Why is it so beyond you to think that a woman might have something to offer as a Guardian?”

“Women do have much to offer,” he acknowledged. “They always have had. For example, I was trained by my . . . well, by a dear friend of my family. A Scottish seer. A woman who was very influential within the
Fraternitas
, and not without considerable power. She gave much of herself. Many of our most powerful Vateis are women, and always have been.”