The Hanged Man (41 page)

She finally ordered Lord Hollifield's coach made ready, her authority backed up by the queen's carte blanche letter. Alex liked this level of command, but understood a disproportionate amount of responsibility came with it. She gladly anticipated turning the paper and her charges over to Mrs. Woodwake as soon as humanly possible.

As a grudging concession to James, who was more of a gentleman than Alex was a lady, she allowed him to place Andrina on a settee and remove her blindfold. She'd returned to her full senses and chewed at her gag, attempting to talk. It would have been comical, but Alex was certain those bursts of frustrated sounds were not fit to hear. The gag remained in place.

“Andrina, you'll be given the chance to speak as much as you'd like soon enough. Until then, you may want to consider what sort of apologies to write to our godmother and in particular to Princess Charlotte. After tonight you won't be allowed within miles of the palace ever again.”

Fingate, poor fellow, looked moderately appalled, not at Andrina's fate, but at Alex's obvious satisfaction over it.

Alex realized that she was not the ingenuous fledgling he'd known ten years ago, but she refused to feel badly about that. Where Andrina was concerned, it was impossible to conceal the pleasure of finally having the last word.

Lord Hollifield remained quiet. He'd made use of pen, ink, and paper, composing a letter to his wife. Alex read it to make sure it wasn't a coded message to another member of the Order of the Black Sun. She apologized for intruding and gave it to Sebbings to hand deliver. Though a traitor, his lordship was royally connected and would require delicate handling for the time being.

Brook, with an abstracted expression, strode across to the desk, opened the top right drawer, took something from under a sheaf of papers there, and returned to where he'd been standing by the bookcase door.

With a dreadful face, Hollifield gave a short groan of misery and slumped.

“Mr. Brook?”

“Yes, Miss Pendlebury?”

“Were you aware of what you've just done?”

It took him a moment to work out how he'd acquired the derringer in his hand. “Oh. Well.”

“You could not have known that was in the desk.”

“I've never been in this room before,” he admitted.

“Your talent is certainly manifesting itself in useful ways today. Bravo.” She turned to Hollifield. “You are not taking the gentleman's way out to avoid accountability, sir. Remember your family. Causing harm to yourself harms them.”

“What of your family, Alex? What untold harm have you done to them this night?” He shot a pointed look at Teddy and Andrina.

“They brought it on themselves, but I dread giving the news to their parents. My uncle and aunt won't thank me for it, but better from me than a stranger. I'll have no friends on the Pendlebury side, and the crimes committed will taint my name as well. Uncle will resign in disgrace, Aunt will—well, never mind. What comes will come.”

The coach arrived, much to Alex's relief. She wanted to leave before Lady Lindsey returned from her royal dinner.

Lord Hollifield now seemed stoically resigned to accept the consequences of his actions in the best public school manner.

Seemed
. Alex sensed he had a small gem of bright hope deeply hidden. What it might be she could not say, but it had to be removed. There was a moment of scandalized distress from others when she ordered his hands restrained behind him by police darbies. They were to be left on indefinitely.

“Really, Alex, must you?” asked James.

She shot him a bleak look. “I don't … I don't want the man hanging himself later.”

That took James aback. He looked ill, but nodded and said nothing more on the subject.

Alex briefly touched Hollifield's arm as he was helped into the coach. The bright little gem was gone, replaced by bleak darkness.

The ride to headquarters was silent. She was tired to the bone and welcomed the respite, however short. Duty called again when they were stopped at Whitehall by armed men from the Horse Guards. Barricades were up, blocking the street. The queen's letter got them through.

Lights burned in every window of the Service building, and just across Richmond Terrace, New Scotland Yard was active as a knocked-over anthill. Horse Guards and soldiers on foot were everywhere. Some were even posted on roofs overlooking Downing Street. She'd never seen such a thing before.

When they rolled through the gates into the courtyard Alex picked up the excitement in the air. Her telegram to Woodwake had prepared the way for the prisoners. Hollifield, Teddy, Andrina, and the hapless guard (still groggy from his fight with Brook) were swept off to hidden regions to eventually be questioned by Readers. Alex wondered if the rules might be set aside to include her in the process, since she could offer insight to her cousins' reactions. Time would tell.

Mrs. Woodwake was busy elsewhere, though. Interviews would have to wait. Instead of a meeting room or even the dining hall, their party was escorted up to a large parlor on the fourth floor. It looked less like a ministry office and more like a private home.

A cheery fire burned, the rugs were thick and mellow in color and some exceedingly fine landscape paintings drew the eye beyond the limits of the walls. Windows looked out over Whitehall and the length of Downing Street. During the day a slice of St. James's Park would be visible beyond.

Bullet holes marred the glass from the attack that afternoon. Rags had been stuffed in to halt draughts. Corresponding holes in the ceiling attested to the velocity and force of the air gun bullets. The great black rectangles of night made Alex uncomfortable, as though invisible things were staring in on them. She pulled the heavy brocade curtains together.

Benedict, blown again from having to climb stairs, balked at the door, pointing in alarm at what hung over the fireplace.

“Mirror! Get me away! Get me away!”

He blundered backward into the hall. Brook and James caught him and Alex promised to remove the offending décor. That calmed him, but he remained rigid as a corpse until two of their staff escorts lifted the framed glass from its hooks and took it elsewhere.

Fingate had apparently appointed himself the poor man's unofficial keeper, and with soothing words got him settled close to the fire. Benedict shut his eyes and hummed to himself, his fingers tapping the chair arms. Alex thought she recognized Bach.

Her exhausted little company spread themselves among the furnishings. Even the indefatigable Brook sprawled in a chair, his long legs stretched out. She knew if she shut her eyes she'd never get them open again. Besides, the damned corset pinched too much. She went to the hall, looking for and finding a necessary room.

Tiled from floor to ceiling in greens and blues with winking highlights of topaz-colored glass, it was the most remarkable and beautiful one she'd ever seen. The walls gave the impression of being in a fairy forest of vines and flowers, dazzling even by gaslight.

Alex quit the water closet to find Sybil waiting on a settee by the bathing tub, a bright smile on her mad face. She wore a purple dressing gown and brilliant red carpet slippers.

“Hallo, traveler's daughter! I'm glad you broke the mirrors. My head's cooler now.”

Alex had to smile back. “Pleased to have been of help.”

“Dreadful things in those mirrors.”

“Yes. There were.”

“Are. Still there. Can't let more get through.”

“Do you know how many are here?”

“No, how many?” She tucked her lips, waiting for an answer.

“I'd hoped you might say.”

Sybil tapped her head. “Doesn't work like that. What comes, comes, and others decide what's important. I gave that up ages ago, too distracting. You look terrible.”

“I'm sure I do. Would you mind helping me loosen this corset?”

“I won't know until I try. What a pretty dress!”

“It was some hours ago. Who else is else about? That companion of yours?”

“She's having a nap. I exhaust people. I don't mean to, but there it is. Here—this came, or maybe I had it brought up. Sometimes I forget what I ask for, but these wanted to be in here and they aren't my size. They should trim you up.” She gestured at a blouse and a walking skirt neatly laid out on a chair. “Are the colors all right?”

The blouse had blue and brown stripes and the skirt was a slightly darker brown with sky-blue braiding for trim.

Normally Alex would have avoided such a garish and unlikely combination, but anything was better than the rags of Andrina's vanity. “They're beautiful. Thank you.”

Sybil gave a breathy giggle, rocking back and forth. “I love color-color-colors. They don't always go together and then suddenly they do. Such a surprise, like rainbows in a mud puddle.”

She assisted with the corset and Alex took what seemed to be her first deep breath in days. “Do you live here?”

“All the time. It keeps me safe. Hardly ever have guests. I'm supposed to be in bed, but I like you. Had to say hallo. Do you like my sitting room?”

“It's lovely.”

“But so quiet. One day after another with the big clock up the road striking away the hours. Dickie promised to find a better place for me, but there won't be time, things are going to get dreadfully busy for him.”

“In what way?”

“He'll find out. I
think
he'll find out. I don't know. I might never know. Or I'll know too much and it gets stopped up trying to get out. I've just the one head and a thousand thoughts a minute, all of them right and all of them wrong and somebody always wants me to pick just one. But I leave that to others.”

“Quite right,” Alex said supportively, buttoning the blouse. The blue and brown stripes should not have cooperated, yet did. “This is delightful.”

Another pleased giggle. “I like getting things right. Makes up for the other times.” She ran water in the washing basin and soaked a fresh towel in it. “For the handsome one's eyes.”

“Lieutenant Brook?”

“I don't know. There's a handsome man with bruises and he's keen on you. Be keen right back.” She thrust the towel into Alex's hands.

“That's not something I'm able to—”

“Piffle. Be keen.” She made shooing gestures, and there was no answer but to leave.

In Alex's absence the fire had been built up with more coal, making the room pleasantly warm for all its size. James, stretched on a long couch, snored gently. Brook began to rise. She waved him down.

“Put your head back,” she said.

He obeyed, watching from his blooming bruises. He did have such nice eyes. She eased the cold towel on, and he gave a small sigh. As she started to turn, his hand somehow caught hers. Neither so gently that she could pull away nor so firmly that it would hurt, he held fast. He was insistent about it.

The emotions from that contact …

Her instinctive reaction was always to slam her internal armor in place.

This time, she did not.

What flooded in was … nice.

His feelings were like chords of music. Sweet. Warm. Boundless. Waves of it, lifting, lilting, strong.

She knew
she
was the source of its creation in him.

Which was a little frightening.

He released her hand. She expected him to move the towel so he could gauge her reaction, but he left it in place. He'd wanted only for her to
know
. What she would do with the knowledge was her choice.

She gulped, seized by a hectic urge to run, which was foiled by a calm curiosity to stay and see what might happen.

“Lady Drina?”

Fingate. Dear, wonderful Fingate saved her from making a decision. She gave her full attention to him as she might grant to a life preserver flung her way on a stormy sea.

“I must speak with you,” he said. “A private matter. Family.”

Something to do with her father. “The hall, then.”

He followed her out and they settled on two chairs beneath a lighted gas sconce.

“I've a small favor to ask, Mr. Fingate. I prefer to be called Alex, or if you must, Miss Alex or Miss Pendlebury. I'm used to it, now. After tonight the less connection I have with that side of the family the better. I've no use for titles in the Service.”

His expression was unusually distressed. “Very well. Something … I don't know how to say it. This beyond unspeakable if it's true. I hope to God it is not, that I just made a mistake.”

“About what?”

“You said earlier today that you live on Baker Street?”

“What of it?”

“And Dr. Fonteyn told me that you've been with the Psychic Service for several years.”

“Yes.…”

“If that's true, then why is it that—”

*   *   *

Alex found the carte blanche letter almost murderously helpful at clearing obstacles. It enabled her to walk unchallenged out of Service headquarters, to commandeer a coach, and to get through the Horse Guards. She had an errand that would not wait, even if she was dismissed in disgrace as a result.

She stormed up to the door of Pendlebury House and, having lost her key, rang the bell until someone let her in. It might have been Mabrey, she was in no state to notice.

She pushed past, fetched what she wanted, and departed without a word. If her aunt and uncle were back from whatever social demand had taken them away, she didn't know or care. In her present mood she'd have set fire to the whole damnable place and felt only satisfaction.

Fingate had told her much, and Alex worked out the rest.

The coach was barely stopped before the Service building when she burst forth and charged into the front reception area. Mrs. George was not on duty, but the older man at the desk readily provided the number of the room she wanted.

Below street level were the most secure and quiet rooms, used for Readings. Now it was as noisy as an East End public house on New Year's Eve.