The Gilded Scarab (17 page)

Young Mr. Garrard was happy to comply. He had already listed the jewels in triplicate, the industrious soul, and simply drew thick black lines through the entries for the brooches. He added his valuations for the remainder and signed each of the three copies. He provided me with notepaper too. I scribbled my letter to the Stravaigor, offering my compliments to him and my salutations to the ladies, enclosed the estimate, and handed the sealed envelope to a Garrard’s messenger boy to take to Stravaigor House. Garrard kept one copy of his valuation list, and I stowed the other into my pocketbook.

Ten minutes later, I was bowed out into the street, my hand once again numb from young Mr. Garrard’s enthusiastic grip and my head still reeling with the shock of realizing I wasn’t nearly as poor as I’d thought I was.

Six
thousand
guineas.

I could do it. With that amount of money, I could find myself something, some business opportunity to buy into, and it didn’t have to be some miserable clerkship in the City somewhere or some minor post given to me by the House out of charity. I could be independent. I could be free to find my own way.

What that way would be, of course, was still a deep mystery.

Chapter 11

B
Y
THE
end of January, three issues occupied my attention.

First, the Stravaigor had replied to my note within the week. He agreed to pay up without protest or comment, he wanted everything in the jewel box, and he offered the higher estimates provided by young Mr. Garrard without me having to hint at it.

It made me deeply uneasy. That old jackal was up to something, had seen some bone to worry at. Possibly mine.

Mr. Pearse agreed. “Good Lord, that’s ominous.”

“It is. It’s damned ominous. I don’t know whether to dance in the streets for joy or run for cover. I know he’s very rich and this isn’t a huge outlay for him, but still…. Why am I suddenly so important they’re going out of their way to be pleasant and make everything easier for me? Worrying.”

Mr. Pearse nodded. “It would worry me too.”

I leaned up against the counter and considered it. “He wanted to know about my eyes and whether I’d fly again, and they got at the eye doctor, Carrington, about that. Perhaps he has something in mind where he’ll need an aeronaut.”

“What?”

“I have no idea. I would have to have a mind like the Stravaigor’s to parse out every possible Machiavellian plan of his, and I don’t. Thankfully.” I frowned. “You know, I think it’s possible I’m some sort of genetic sport. You know how sometimes even the best racehorses sire duds? I’m not suggesting I’m a dud—”

“You most certainly are not.”

“No, I know that. But I am different.” I drew a soft sighing breath. “In more ways than one. Whatever makes a Lancaster the perfect House Stravaigor drone has passed me by. I don’t have anything like the right sort of House temperament. Something went awry in the breeding lines, for definite.”

Mr. Pearse smiled. “You know my thoughts on that. Better be thought a dud than conform, my boy.” He tapped thoughtfully on the dials of one of his machines. “Although, your House has evidently learned to value something about you, anyway. You may be on to something, that it’s to do with your skills as an aeronaut.”

“Perhaps. But this is Londinium. We have the largest aerodrome in the world here, and there must be dozens of skilled aeronauts available for hire. Why me?”

“You’re a House member, and therefore deemed a natural asset, deemed to belong to them. They expect that since you owe your education and, to some extent, your military training to them that you have an obligation to fall in with whatever they plan. And, you know, that may be the most important. You’re not merely an aeronaut, Rafe. You’re a military aeronaut. You were trained in battle. That could give them quite an edge in whatever plans the Stravaigor is cooking up.” He tilted his head to one side, grimacing. “He has always been considered a tricksy one.”

I didn’t disagree, although I wondered how Mr. Pearse knew. Well, there was little value in pursuing it. I didn’t have a hope of understanding the Stravaigor’s motivation, and very little desire to do so.

So despite my misgivings, and despite Mr. Pearse’s anything-but-sotto-voce prognostications of the doom attending any man who got involved with the Houses, I wrote a polite acceptance of the Stravaigor’s terms and settled back to consider what I would do with my money as soon as the banker’s draft cleared.

And to consider what to do about the second issue that concerned me. Daniel Meredith was proving to be quite a problem.

D
ANIEL
AND
I had seen each other often since our tryst on New Year’s Eve. Three or four times a week we met at one of the discreet clubs for gentlemen of our persuasion, or a smart restaurant such as The Criterion in Piccadilly, or the Tea Kettle café in Wardour Street, before going somewhere like Alex’s hotel—a smaller, less salubrious Margrethe’s—for some energetic coupling between the sheets. These were all relatively safe places for our rendezvous.

I visited him at his rooms at least weekly, with Daniel explaining my visits away to his landlady by telling her I had an interest in Aegyptology and was taking private tuition. Sadly, he neglected to tell me about this scintillatingly original idea of his beforehand, so arriving in Argyle Square one day in mid-January, I was a little taken aback by Mrs. Carr opening the door with a “Good day to you, sir! The Professor’s ready and waiting for you. How are your studies going? Not finding all that unnatural stuff too much for you, I hope?”

I stared for an instant. Then I assured her I was a very ardent student. “I like the unnatural stuff, you know, Mrs. C. Or I wouldn’t take up so much of the Professor’s time.”

I am ashamed to say I giggled like a schoolboy all the way up the stairs to Daniel’s rooms and teased him about it for the entire afternoon. In between some of the unnatural stuff, that was, at which time I was far too busy being ardent to bother with teasing.

In short, Daniel and I saw a lot of each other. I liked him. I enjoyed his company. He was funny and entertaining, and if he was sometimes a little too intense for my comfort, he was very good at what he did. I don’t mean the Aegyptology, in which I had no real interest beyond a tolerant politeness when he wanted to talk about his work. He was very good at being my lover. I asked no more of him.

On the 23rd of January, I went back to Carrington to collect my new spectacles. Give the man his due, he was a prosy windbag with far too much veneration for the Houses, but he knew eyes. Beckett’s confidence in him was justified. My new spectacles were a revelation. When I put them on, everything sprang into focus in a way it hadn’t since the accident. I no longer had to strain to see the world around me and I stopped frowning and squinting in order to focus. I almost forgave the man on the spot. Well, perhaps that was a step too far. I ordered a spare pair of spectacles instead.

I had intended to meet Daniel that night at the Trocadero at around seven, but he sent me a note by the afternoon post. He had an unexpected faculty meeting at University College and would be delayed. Despite this, I went at the appointed time. The Trocadero was becoming a known meeting place, and I thought I’d like to widen my acquaintance somewhat. I certainly wouldn’t be able to do so through Daniel. He had sometimes said something like “Oh, there’s James Harniman. He’s a member”—with a little emphasis on “member” to indicate his meaning. He would never make a move to introduce us. And if the Harnimans of this world came across and greeted him, Daniel would deliberately angle them away from me and block them off. He loomed and showed too many teeth, a human mastiff in protective mode. And when they retired, defeated, he’d smile more naturally, saying, “Some people always insist on intruding, Rafe! I’m sorry for the interruption. Now then, what were you telling me about the racing calendar this month?”

Which grated, because he was about as much interested in the Sport of Kings as I was in mummified cats.

I was getting rather tired of being managed and was beginning to feel a little claustrophobic. So instead of sitting in my room for another hour, I donned my evening clothes, picked up my sword stick, and headed out to the Trocadero, where I arrived shortly before seven. The Long Bar ran, as its name implies, down the entire length of the room, and was all marble pillars and arches, with a rather splendid mosaic roof. It was a gentlemen-only bar, although not all were what Daniel called members. It was most popular for men like us on Sunday mornings, when people met for luncheon and gossip, and went on to places like Alex’s or Margrethe’s for the afternoon. But “members” could be found there at any time.

I was approached within minutes of my arrival by a young man, exquisitely dressed, and somewhat of the Oscar Wilde style of aesthetic beauty. He was not exactly discreet, bless him. And although I made it plain I was awaiting someone, the young man, Walter Something-or-other, welcomed me into his circle of friends with an airy “Oh, we like meeting new people. Come and join us until your friend gets here. Truly, I don’t like to see you sitting here on your own. The more the merrier!” He was young and attractive in his gusto and enthusiasm. So I smiled and accepted. Why not?

I was at his table with five other gentlemen when Daniel arrived around eight fifteen. Our conversation had been very wide-ranging, from sports to the arts. We had shared a bottle of claret, laughing at our sparkles and wit. I greeted Daniel rather cheerfully.

Daniel, however, was not smiling. His mouth was closed so tight his lips had thinned out to mere lines, and the skin around them was white. He was breathing rather heavily through his nose, and his eyes had narrowed as he stared at me, his expression anything but delighted-to-see-you-Rafe. The hand he put on the back of a chair clenched so tight his knuckles whitened. Ah. He was not pleased, then.

I smiled at him, waved my cigarillo, and rose. “Forgive me, gentlemen. You have been delightful company, but it is time for me to go. My dinner companion has arrived.”

They were very friendly chaps. They turned to look at Daniel and welcomed him with jovial cries indicative of their delight. They pressed him to join them, and when he refused, curtly, they jumped up to shake hands with me and with Daniel, grasping his hands despite his obvious reluctance, and slapped me on the shoulder a few times. Walter gave me a peck on the cheek. “Because you’re such a good fellow! Do come and join us again.” He smiled at Daniel. “Both of you. Bon appétit!”

I kept the smile going, despite Daniel’s manner. He caught my arm with more haste than good manners, and hustled me over to a table a little too close to the main bar than I thought was entirely comfortable and at the opposite end of the room to my recent companions. His mouth turned down at the corners, and damn me if it didn’t tremble. I hadn’t seen so reproachful an expression since I accidentally trod on the tail of my father’s old setter, Trixie.

Being in a public place was all that saved me from a full dramatic performance of such tragic proportions we would probably have been banned from the Trocadero for life. As it was, the hissed comments and complaints and the flouncing proved Sarah Bernhardt had a serious rival when it came to grand tragedy. Daniel talked in a monotone, pitching his voice not to be overheard, speaking in sharp, vicious little bursts—“You should have waited for me. You were flirting. You let that boy kiss you. I had hoped for more from you. You disappoint me. You let that boy kiss you. Do you like them better than me? What do you think you were doing? You let that boy kiss you. How would you like it if I went off with other men? You let that boy kiss you!”

And so on and so on. Ad infinitum.

Good. God.

He looked even more like Trixie when, foolishly I now think, I attempted to justify myself. “Good grief, Daniel, calm down and stop acting like a Tragedy Jill! I was merely telling a joke and sharing a glass of wine with a few like-minded fellows while I waited for you to arrive. I was hardly ravishing them against the banquette seating!”

Daniel’s hand closed over my wrist so hard it would have left marks but for the protection from my shirt cuff. “You’re with me, Rafe! That should be enough for you!”

I looked down at his hand, and then at him. I didn’t shout. I didn’t threaten. I was, though, firm. Very, very firm. “Take your hand off me.”

His jaw dropped at my tone, which I admit was low and hard. His grip loosened. “But Rafe—”

I shook him off, with more force than he was expecting, because his mouth formed a perfect
O
of consternation.

“That is enough, Daniel. Enough. If I want to converse with someone else, I’ll do so. You do not lay hands on me like that. Are we understood? You don’t have the right. No one has that right.”

I swear, his eyes filled with tears. He clutched my hand, and his was trembling. He was all trembling lower lip and abject apologies.

“Oh Rafe, I’m so sorry! It’s just that I like you so much, so very much… I was worried…. Do forgive me. I would never hurt you for the world! I forgot myself. I can’t help being a passionate man, you know, and really, who can blame me where you’re concerned? You’re very beautiful, and any man would be tempted… I suppose I was a little jealous seeing you with those boys, laughing and joking with them…. Rafe, dear Rafe, forgive me! I do trust you, of course I do. All I want is to keep you happy and content….”